,.2p*=n 


CO  >      1 


-< 


'K 


S 


'"^ 


o 


oo 


:5. 


v/sa3AiNn]Wv 


m^ 


i(TI    ii 


<  £9 


=3 


^ 


(-3 


^i 

11 

jilTVD-JO^ 

%i 

;fo%, 

^OFCAIIFO% 


O  " 


'%a3AINn-3WV' 


^lOSANCElfj^^ 


%a3AIN 


^^HIBRARYOc 


■-^/^iliAiiNiiJ^V 


>i 


'g   Af 


•B 


^     ^^tUBRARYp^ 


Si 


^. 


>&Aaviiaiiiv- 


^lOSANCnfj> 

O 


"^/^aaAiNftmv^ 


^lOSANf 


rT^ 


Copyright,  iSgg,  by 
BLANCHE"  WILDER   BELLAMY 


ALi,    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


TWELVE  ENGLISH  POE'li 


SKETCHES    OF    THE    LIVES    AND    SELECTIONS    FROM 
WORKS    OF    THE    TWELVE    REPRESENTATIVE 
ENGLISH    POETS    FROM    CHAUCER 
TO   TENNYSON 


BY 

BLANCHE    WILDER    BELLAMY 


"And  to  hem  give  T  feyth  and  ful  credence, 
And  in  myn  herte  have  hem  in  reverence." 

"  For  cute  of  olde  feldys  as  men  sey, 
Cometh  al  this  newe  corn  from  yer  to  yere ; 
And  out  of  olde  bolcis,  in  good  fey 
Comyth  al  this  newe  science  that  men  lere." 


BOSTON,  U.S.A. 

GINN   &   COMPANY,   PUBLISHERS 

Cbe  Sltl)en8ttim  press 
1900 


His 


PREFACE. 


The  sketches  collected  in  this  volume,  and  published 
u..  .er  the  title  of  "Twelve  English  Poets,"  were  pre- 
pared at  the  request  of  the  editors  of  the  Outlook,  and 
originally  appeared  in  that  journal. 

Their  purpose  is  to  show  to  young  readers  what  has 

been  the  direct  line  of  descent  of  English  poetry,  and 

^-  r^y—  i(jp  them  with  a  brief  introduction  to  the  work 

^"^^^  :ers,  in  the  hope  that  such  an  early 

introduction  may  lead  to  a  lifelong  intimacy  with  them. 

The  text  of  the  selections  from  Chaucer  is  from  the 
Riverside  edition,  and  is  used  by  the  kind  permission 
of  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

BLANCHE   WILDER    BELLAMY. 

Brooklyn,  March,  1899. 


G84573 


CONTENTS. 


-»o« 

PAGE 


Chaucer i 

Spenser 33 

Shakespeare 67 

Milton 13' 

Dryden          . '75 

Pope 215 

Goldsmith -63 

Burns -S5 

Scott 3' 5 

Byron 373 

Wordsworth •  •        •  403 

Tennyson 449 

Index  of  Authors -199 

Index  of  First  Lines 503 

Glossary 5°9 


TWELVE    ENGLISH     POETS. 


-o-oJ^OO- 


I.     GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 

( 1 328-1 340)  — 1400. 

English  poetry  is  like  the  message-torch  of  Gaelic 
story.  The  poets  are  the  torch-bearers.  They  carry  to 
men  in  the  signal  flame  of  poetry  the  message  which 
stirs  them  to  life.  From  century  to  century  and  from 
hand  to  hand  this  torch  has  been  passed  on,  and  now 
it  casts  a  line  of  light  on  the  path  of  nearly  six  hundred 
years. 

The  first  of  these  torch-bearers,  the  first  great  English 
poet,  is  Geoffrey  Chaucer.  On  the  long  roll  of  honor  no 
one  ever  more  richly  merited  the  name  of  "  poet  "  than  did 
he,  for  a  poet  is  a  maker,  and  Chaucer  was  a  maker  in  his 
own  literature  and  language  in  no  common  way. 

To  know  him  we  must  go  back  more  than  five  hundred 
years,  to  the  stirring,  brilliant  fourteenth  century,  and  to 
the  glorious  reign  of  Edward  the  Third.  Dante,  the  great 
Italian  poet,  had  been  dead  but  a  few  years  ;  Petrarch  and 
Boccaccio  were  living  and  writing  in  Italy,  and  the  Black 
Prince  was  about  to  win  his  spurs  in  the  French  wars  when 
at  some  disputed  date  between  the  years   1328  and  1340 

I 


2  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Chaucer  was  born  in  London,  where  his  father  was  a 
vintner,  or  wine-tunner. 

We  soon  begin  to  hear  of  him  as  a  part  of  the  court,  "  the 
most  splendid  in  Europe,"  first  as  page  to  Prince  Lionel, 
and  then  to  a  powerful  patron,  John  of  Gaunt,  ''time- 
honored  Lancaster."  When  King  Edward  went  with  his 
proud  army  of  invasion  into  France,  three  years  after  the 
battle  of  Poitiers,  Chaucer  went  too,  and  was  taken  prisoner, 
but  soon  ransomed  by  the  king.  He  was  married  to  a  court 
lady,  supposed  to  have  been  Philippa  de  Roet,  a  lady-in- 
waiting  on  Queen  Philippa.  He  was  afterwards  sent  on 
seven  diplomatic  missions,  three  of  them  to  Italy,  where 
we  like  to  believe  that  he  met  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio,  "  the 
prince  of  story-tellers." 

Offices  and  honors  were  heaped  upon  him,  also,  at  home, 
and  he  became  a  member  of  Parliament  for  the  shire  of 
Kent.  After  this,  for  a  few  years  his  good  fortune  waned, 
and  he  lost  some  of  his  offices  while  John  of  Gaunt  was 
absent  in  Portugal.  But  Richard  the  Second,  moved  perhaps 
by  the  little  poem  "  To  My  Empty  Purse,"  gave  him  a  pension 
and  a  tun  of  wine  yearly;  and  when,  in  1399,  Richard  was 
deposed,  and  Henry  the  Fourth,  John  of  Gaunt's  son,  came 
to  the  throne,  within  three  days  afterwards  he  doubled  the 
poet's  pension  in  honor  of  "  his  own  friend  and  his  father's 
friend." 

On  the  next  Christmas  Eve,  Chaucer  leased  a  house  in 
the  Garden  of  St.  Mary's,  Westminster,  on  the  ground  where 
the  splendid  chapel  of  Henry  the  Seventh  stands  now, 
and  there,  in  less  than  a  year,  in  October  of  1400,  he  died 
and  was  buried  close  at  hand,  the  first  of  all  their  mighty 
band  to  sleep  in  the  Poets'  Corner  of  the  great  Abbey  of 
Westminster. 

Chaucer  lived    for   more  than    threescore  of    the  epoch- 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER.  3 

making  years  of  history,  and  these  are  some  of  the  titles 
he  earned  in  them : 

"The  grand  Translateur,  noble  Geffroy  Chaucer," 

"  The  Firste  Fynder  of  our  faire  langage." 

"  The  Father  of  English  Poetry." 

"  The  Floure  of  Eloquence." 

"  Reverend  Chaucer,  rose  of  rethoris  all." 

"  The  Load-starre  of  English  poetry." 

"The  Well  of  English  undefyled." 

"The  Poet  of  the  Dawn." 

"  The  English  Morning  Star  of  Song." 

"  Dan  Chaucer,  the  First  Warbler." 

He  was  called  by  Eustache  Deschamps,  a  French  poet  of 
the  day,  "  the  grand  Translateur"  because  he  translated  the 
"Roman  de  la  Rose,"  the  most  popular  of  the  French  medi- 
aeval poems  in  the  fourteenth  century.  His  title  of  "  Finder  " 
of  our  language  is  quite  as  well  deserved.  When  William 
and  his  Normans  conquered  England  and  the  Saxons  in 
1066,  they  brought  with  them  not  only  a  new  rule,  but  a 
new  language,  and  during  three  hundred  years  a  form  of 
this  language,  the  Anglo-Norman,  became  the  speech,  in 
England,  of  the  court,  and  of  the  tribunals  of  justice,  and 
was  used  in  the  opening  of  Parliament.  Latin  was  used  by 
scholars  or  clerks,  while  the  Anglo-Saxon  was  kept  under 
and  made  of  small  account,  as  Walter  Scott  amusingly  shows 
in  his  introduction  to  "  Ivanhoe."  "  English  was  not  taught 
in  the  schools,  but  French  only,  until  after  the  accession  of 
Richard  the  Second,  or  p'ossibly  the  latter  years  of  Edward 
the  Third,  and  Latin  was  always  studied  through  the  French." 
But  a  natural  and  gradual  coalescence  of  the  two  languages 
went  on,  as  the  two  races  lived  together  in  a  common  coun- 
try ;  as  they  came  to  have  common  interests  to  protect ;  and 


4  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

as,  in  the  wars  of  Edward  the  Third,  they  found  a  common 
foe  to  fight. 

Chaucer,  who  was  a  learned  scholar,  had  two  vocabularies 
to  choose  from.  "  He  heard  humming  around  him,"  we  are 
told,  "  Latin,  French,  and  English  words  in  wild  confusion, 
and  said,  like  the  writer  of  the  '  Testament  of  Love  '  (once 
thought  to  be  his  own),  '  Let  clerks  indite  in  Latin,  .  .  .  and 
let  the  French  in  French  indite  their  quaint  terms,  for  it  is 
kindly  to  their  mouths,  and  let  us  sow  our  fantasies  in  such 
words  as  we  learn  of  our  mother  tongue.'  "  So,  understand- 
ing and  choosing  from  all  sources,  but  duly  honoring  his  native 
Saxon,  he  came  to  be  called  the  finder  of  his  native  tongue. 

A  third  of  Chaucer's  writing  was  in  prose,  and  when  we 
remember  that  he  has  left  us  thirty-three  thousand  and  ninety 
lines  of  verse,  we  cannot  wonder  that  he  begins  the  "  Parle- 
ment  of  Fowles  "  with  the  sigh,  "  The  Life  so  short,  the  craft 
so  long  to  learn."  "The  Death  of  Blaunche,  the  Duchesse," 
"The  Parlement  of  Fowles,"  "The  House  of  Fame,"  "The 
Legende  of  Good  Women,"  and  a  translation  of  Boethius 
are  distinguished  and  familiar  among  his  works,  but  the  great 
and  crowning  work,  the  first  splendid,  characteristic,  English 
narrative  poem  is  the  "  Canterbury  Tales."  In  the  prologue 
to  the  poem  (over  which  Dryden  wrote  "  Here  is  God's 
Plenty !  ")  the  poet  tells  us  that  he  goes  to  the  Tabard  Inn 
in  Southwark,  to  lie  for  a  night  before  starting  on  a  pilgrim- 
age to  the  shrine  of  Thomas  A'  Becket,  in  the  Cathedral 
Church  of  Canterbury.  While  there,  a  company  of  "  wel 
nyne-and-twenty"  other  pilgrims  comes  to  lodge  in  the  same 
hostelry,  and  next  morning  they  set  forth,  the  host  of  the 
Tabard  and  the  poet  joining  them.  A  knight  and  his  son, 
a  young  squire  ;  a  yeman,  or  yeoman  ;  a  prioresse,  named 
Madame  Eglentyne  ;  another  nonne,  or  nun,  and  three 
preestes,  or  priests  ;   a   monk,  a  frere  or  friar  ;   a  marchant, 


GEOFFREY   CHAUCER.  5 

or  merchant;  a  clerk,  or  scholar;  a  man  of  lawe,  or  lawyer; 
a  Frankeleyn,  or  freeholder ;  a  haberdassher  and  a  carpen- 
ter;  a  webbe,  a  dyere,  and  a  tapicer  —  that  is,  a  weaver,  a 
dyer,  and  an  upholsterer;  a  shipman,  or  sailor;  a  doctour;  a 
wyf,  or  woman  of  Bath  ;  a  persoun,  or  parson  ;  a  plowman ; 
a  reve,  that  is,  a  steward,  or  bailiff,  and  a  miller ;  a  somnour, 
or  summoner,  that  is,  an  ofBcer  in  an  ecclesiastical  court ; 
a  pardoner,  or  seller  of  indulgences  ;  and  a  maunciple,  or  an 
official  who  buys  provisions  for  a  college  or  an  inn,  —  these 
are  the  "companye,"  and  they  agree  that  as  they  ride  they 
shall  entertain  each  other  by  telling  tales.  These  stories,  of 
which  there  are  twenty-five,  coming  from  all  classes  and  con- 
ditions of  people,  have  come  to  be  relied  upon  as  the  truest 
history  of  the  English  men  and  women  of  Chaucer's  day. 
Many  of  them  are  taken  from  the  Italian  or  from  the  Latin  ; 
but  Chaucer  borrowed  as  the  bee  borrows  the  sweets  from 
many  flowers,  and  then  assimilates  and  remakes  them  into 
his  own  honey ;  or,  as  he  says  himself,  like 

Be^s  (or  flyes)  smale 
That  maken  honey  of  flowers. 

The  knight's  tale  of  "  Palamon  and  Arcite";  the  clerk's 
tale  of  -'Patient  Griselda";  the  man  of  lawe's  story  of  the 
"Pious  Constance";  the  touching  and  simple  little  story 
of  "  Yonge  Hugh  of  Lincoln,"  or  the  "  Prioresse's  Tale"; 
these  are  some  of  the  favorites,  but  all  have  wit,  or  pathos, 
fun,  satire,  humor,  insight,  and  all  show  us  Chaucer  as  the 
lover  of  nature,  yet  the  student  of  books  and  men  ;  the 
shrewd,  kindly,  cultivated,  scholarly,  brilliant  man  of  the 
world  —  the  genuine   English  gentleman. 

To  know  him  we  must  read  and  re-read  him.  His  lan- 
guage, looking  at  first  puzzling,  will,  with  a  few  simple  rules, 
become  easy  to  understand.     Then  his  company  will  delight 


6  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

US,  and  we  shall  often  repeat  with  him  the  lines  he  places 
over  the  gate  in  the  "  Parlement  of  Fowles  ": 

Thorgh  me  men  goii  into  that  blysful  place 
Of  hertis  hele,  and  dedly  woundis  cure ; 
Thorgh  me  men  gon  unto  the  welle  of  grace 
Theere  grene  and  lusty  May  shal  evere  endure ; 
This  is  the  weye  to  al  good  aventure  ; 
Be  glad,  thow  redere,  and  thyn  sorwe  out  caste, 
Al  opyn  am  I,  passe  in  and  sped  the  faste! 


THE   CANTERBURY    TALES. 


-o-o'i^<>o- 


THE   GENERAL    PROLOGUE. 

Here  bygynneth  the  Book  of  the  tales  of  Cattnterbury, 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  hise  shoures  soote 
The  droghte  of  March  hath  perced  to  the  roote, 
And  bathed  every  veyne  in  swich  licour 
Of  which  vertu  engendred  is  the  flour ; 
Whan  Zephirus  eek  with  his  swete  breeth 
Inspired  hath  in  every  holt  and  heeth 
The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  yronne, 
And  smale  foweles  maken  melodye 
That  slepen  al  the  nyght  with  open  eye,  — 
So  priketh  hem  Nature  in  hir  corages,  — 
Thanne  longen  folk  to  goon  on  pilgrimages 
And  palmeres  for  to  seken  straunge  strondes 
To  feme  halwes,  kowthe  in  sondry  londes ; 
And  specially,  from  every  shires  ende 
Of  Engelond,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende 
The  hooly  blisful  martir  for  to  seke 
That  hem  hath  holpen  whan  that  they  were  seeke. 

Bifil  that  in  that  seson  on  a  day. 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay, 

7 


TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrymage 

To  Caunterbury  with  ful  devout  corage, 

At  nyght  were  come  in-to  that  hostelrye 

Well  nyne-and-twenty  in  a  compaignye, 

Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure  y-falle 

In  felaweshipe,  and  pilgrimes  were  they  alle, 

That  toward  Caunterbury  wolden  ryde. 

The  Chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wyde 

And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  beste. 

And  shortly  whan  the  sonne  was  to-reste, 

So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everychon 

That  I  was  of  hir  felaweshipe  anon, 

And  made  forward  erly  for  to  ryse 

To  take  oure  wey,  ther  as  I  yow  devyse. 

But  nathelees,  whil  I  have  tyme  and  space, 
Er  that  I  ferther  in  this  tale  pace, 
Me  thynketh  it  accordaunt  to  resoun 
To  telle  yow  al  the  condicioun 
Of  ech  of  hem,  so  as  it  semed  me, 
And  whiche  they  weren  and  of  what  degree 
And  eek  in  what  array  that  they  were  inne ; 
And  at  a  Knyght  than  wol  I  first  bigynne. 

A  Knyght  ther  was  and  that  a  worthy  man, 
That  fro  the  tyme  that  he  first  bigan 
To  riden  out,  he  loved  chivalrie, 
Trouthe  and  honour,  fredom  and  curteisie. 
Ful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre. 
And  therto  hadde  he  riden  no  man  ferre, 
As  wel  in  cristendom  as  in  hethenesse. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 

And  evere  honoured  for  his  worthynesse. 

At  Alisaundre  he  was  whan  it  was  wonne; 

Ful  ofte  tyme  he  hadde  the  bord  bigonne 

Aboven  alle  nacions  in  Pruce. 

In  Lettow  hadde  he  reysed  and  in  Ruce,  — 

No  cristen  man  so  ofte  of  his  degree. 

In  Gernade,  at  the  seege  eek  hadde  he  be 

Of  Algezir,  and  riden  in  Belmarye. 

At  Lyeys  was  he,  and  at  Satalye, 

When  they  were  wonne  ;  and  in  the  Grete  See 

At  many  a  noble  armee  hadde  he  be. 

At  mortal  batailles  hadde  he  been  fiftene, 
And  foughten  for  oure  feith  at  Tramyssene 
In  lystes  thries,  and  ay  slayn  his  foo. 
This  ilke  worthy  knyght  hadde  been  also 
Somtyme  with  the  lord  of  Palatye 
Agayn  another  hethen  in  Turkye  ; 
And  everemoore  he  hadde  a  sovereyn  prys. 
And  though  that  he  were  worthy,  he  was  wys, 
And  of  his  port  as  meeke  as  is  a  mayde. 
He  nevere  yet  no  vileynye  ne  sayde 
In  al  his  lyf  un-to  no  maner  wight. 
He  was  a  verray  parfit,  gentil  knyght. 

But  for  to  tellen  yow  of  his  array, 
His  hors  was  goode  but  he  was  nat  gay. 
Of  fustian  he  wered  a  gypoun 
Al  bismotered  with  his  habergeoun 
For  he  was  late  ycome  from  his  viage, 
And  wente  for  to  doon  his  pilgrymage. 


10  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

With  hym  ther  was  his  sone,  a  yong  Squier, 
A  lovyere  and  a  lusty  bacheler, 
With  lokkes  cruUe  as  they  were  leyd  in  presse. 
Of  twenty  yeer  of  age  he  was,  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  evene  lengthe, 
And  wonderly  delyvere  and  of  greet  strengthe, 
And  he  hadde  been  somtyme  in  chyvachie, 
In  Flaundres,  in  Artoys  and  Pycardie, 
And  born  hym  weel,  as  of  so  litel  space, 
In  hope  to  stonden  in  his  lady  grace. 
Embrouded  was  he,  as  it  were  a  meede 
Al  ful  of  fresshe  floures  whyte  and  reede ; 
Syngynge  he  was  or  floytynge,  al  the  day ; 
He  was  as  fressh  as  is  the  monthe  of  May. 
Short  was  his  gowne,  with  sieves  longe  and  wyde. 
Wei  koude  he  sitte  on  hors  and  faire  ryde  ; 
He  koude  songes  make  and  wel  endite. 
Juste  and  eek  daunce  and  weel  purtreye  and  .write. 
So  hoote  he  lovede  that  by  nyghtertale 
He  slepte  namoore  than  dooth  a  nyghtyngale ; 
Curteis  he  was,  lowely  and  servysable. 
And  carf  biforn  his  fader  at  the  table. 
*         *  *  * 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That  of  hir  smylyng  was  ful  symple  and  coy; 
Hire  gretteste  ooth  was  but  by  seint  Loy, 
And  she  was  cleped  Madame  Eglentyne. 
Ful  weel  she  soonge  the  service  dyvyne, 
Entuned  in  hir  nose  ful  semeely. 
And  Frenssh  she  spak  ful  faire  and  fetisly 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER.  11 

After  the  scole  of  Stratford-atte-Bowe, 
For  Frenssh  of  Parys  was  to  hire  unknowe. 
At  mete  wel  ytaught  was  she  with  alle, 
She  leet  no  morsel  from  hir  lippes  falle, 
Ne  wette  hir  fyngres  in  hir  sauce  depe, 
Wel  koude  she  carie  a  morsel  and  wel  kepe, 
That  no  drope  ne  fille  up-on  hire  breste; 
In  curteisie  was  set  ful  muchel  hir  leste. 
Hire  over  lippe  wyped  she  so  clene, 
That  in  hir  coppe  ther  was  no  ferthyng  sene 
Of  grece,  whan  she  dronken  hadde  hir  draughts 
Ful  semely  after  hir  mete  she  raughte, 
And  sikerly  she  was  of  greet  desport, 
And  ful  plesaunt  and  amyable  of  port, 
And  peyned  hire  to  countrefete  cheere 
Of  Court,  and  to  been  estatlich  of  manere, 
And  to  ben  holden  digne  of  reverence; 
But  for  to  speken  of  hire  conscience. 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous 
She  wolde  wepe  if  that  she  saugh  a  mous 
Kaught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or  bledde. 
Of  smale  houndes  hadde  she  that  she  fedde 
With  rosted  flessh,  or  milk  and  wastel  breed; 
But  soore  wepte  she  if  any  of  hem  were  deed, 
Or  if  men  smoot  it  with  a  yerde  smerte, 
And  al  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte. 
Full  semyly  hir  wympul  pynched  was; 
Hire  nose  tretys,  hir  eyen  greye  as  glas, 
Hir  mouth  ful  smal  and  ther  to  softe  and  reed. 
But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fair  forheed ; 


12  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

It  was  almoost  a  spanne  brood  I  trowe, 
For  hardily  she  was  nat  undergrowe. 
Ful  fetys  was  hir  cloke  as  I  was  war ; 
Of  smal  coral  aboute  hire  arm  she  bar 
A  peire  of  bedes  gauded  al  with  grene, 
And  theron  heng  a  brooch  of  gold  ful  sheene, 
On  which  ther  was  first  write  a  crowned  A, 
And  after  A^nor  vincit  omnia. 
*         *         *         * 
A  Clerk  ther  was  of  Oxenford  also 
That  un-to  logyk  hadde  longe  ygo, 
And  lene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake, 
And  he  nas  nat  right  fat,  I  undertake, 
But  looked  hoi  we  and  ther  to  sobrely; 
Ful  thredbare  was  his  overeste  courtepy 
For  he  hadde  geten  hym  yet  no  benefice, 
Ne  was  so  worldly  to  have  office ; 
For  hym  was  levere  have  at  his  beddes  heed 
Twenty  bookes  clad  in  blak  or  reed 
Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophic. 
Than  robes  riche  or  fithele  or  gay  sautrie; 
But  al  be  that  he  was  a  philosophre, 
Yet  hadde  he  but  litel  gold  in  cofre. 
But  al  that  he  myghte  of  his  freendes  hente 
On  bookes  and  his  lernynge  he  it  spente, 
And  bisily  gan  for  the  soules  preye 
Of  hem  that  gaf  hym  wher  with  to  scholeye. 
Of  studie  took  he  moost  cure  and  moost  heede, 
Noght  o  word  spak  he  moore  than  was  neede, 
And  that  was  seyd  in  forme  and  reverence 


GEOFFREY   CHAUCER.  -  13 

And  short  and  quyk  and  ful  of  hy  sentence. 
Sownynge  in  moral  vertu  was  his  speche 
And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne  and  gladly  teche. 

A  Sergeant  of  the  Lawe,  war  and  wys, 
That  often  hadde  been  at  the  Parvys, 
Ther  was  also  ful  riche  of  excellence. 
Discreet  he  was  and  of  greet  reverence ; 
He  semed  swich,  hise  wordes  weren  so  wise. 
Justice  he  was  ful  often  in  Assise, 
By  patente  and  by  pleyn  commissioun, 
For  his  science  and  for  his  heigh  renoun. 
Of  fees  and  robes  hadde  he  many  oon  ; 
So  greet  a  purchasour  was  nowher  noon. 
Al  was  fee  symple  to  hym  in  effect, 
His  purchaysyng  myghte  nat  been  infect. 
Nowher  so  bisy  a  man  as  he  ther  nas. 
And  yet  he  semed  bisier  than  he  was. 
In  termes  hadde  he  caas  and  doomes  alle 
That  from  the  tyme  of  Kyng  William  were  yfalle ; 
Ther-to  he  koude  endite  and  make  a  thyng, 
Therkoude  no  wight  pynchen  at  his  writyng ; 
And  every  statut  coude  he  pleyn  by  rote. 
He  rood  but  hoomly  in  a  medlee  cote 
Girt  with  a  ceint  of  silk  with  barres  smale ; 
Of  his  array  telle  I  no  lenger  tale. 
*  *  *  * 

A  good  man  was  ther  of  religioun 
And  was  a  Povre  Persoun  of  a  Toun  ; 
But  riche  he  was  of  hooly  thoght  and  werk ; 


14  -  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

He  was  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk, 

That  Cristes  Gospel  trewely  wolde  preche, 

Hise  parisshens  devoutly  wolde  he  teche 

Benygne  he  was  and  wonder  diligent. 

And  in  adversitee  full  pacient ; 

And  swich  he  was  y-preved  ofte  sithes 

Ful  looth  were  hym  to  cursen  for  hise  tithes, 

But  rather  wolde  he  geven,  out  of  doute, 

Un-to  his  povre  parisshens  aboute. 

Of  his  offryng  and  eek  of  his  substaunce. 

He  koude  in  litel  thyng  have  sufifiisaunce. 

Wyd  was  his  Parisshe,  and  houses  fer-a-sonder, 

But  he  ne  lafte  nat  for  reyn  ne  thonder. 

In  siknesse  nor  in  meschief  to  visite 

The  ferreste  in  his  parisshe  muche  and  lite 

Up-on  his  feet  and  in  his  hand  a  staf. 

This  noble  ensample  to  his  sheepe  he  gaf 

That  first  he  wroghte  and  afterward  he  taughte. 

Out  of  the  gospel  he  tho  wordes  caughte, 

And  this  figure  he  added  eek  ther  to. 

That  if  gold  ruste  what  shal  iren  doo  ? 

*  *  *  * 

*  *  *  * 

He  sette  nat  his  benefice  to  hyre 

And  leet  his  sheepe  encombred  in  the  myre, 

And  ran  to  Londoun  un-to  Saint  Poules 

To  seken  him  a  chauntrie  for  soules ; 

Or  with  a  bretherhed  to  been  withholde. 

But  dwelleth  at  hoom  and  kepeth  wel  his  folde, 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER.  15 

So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  nat  myscarie,  — 
He  was  a  shepherde,  and  noght  a  mercenarie  : 
And  though  he  hooly  were  and  vertuous, 
He  was  not  to  sinful  man  despitous, 
Ne  of  his  speche  daungerous  ne  digne, 
But  in  his  techyng  discreet  ^and  benygne, 
To  drawen  folk  to  hevene  by  fairnesse, 
By  good  ensample,  this  was  his  bisynesse. 
But  it  were  any  persone  obstinat, 
What  so  he  were,  of  heigh  or  lough  estat, 
Hym  wolde  he  snybben  sharply  for  the  nonys. 
A  bettre  preest  I  trowe  that  nowher  noon  ys ; 
He  waiteth  after  no  pompe  and  reverence, 
Ne  maketh  him  a  spiced  conscience. 
But  Christes  loore  and  his  Apostles  twelve, 
He  taughte,  but  first  he  folwed  it  hym  selve. 


Front 
THE   MAN    OF    LAWE'S    TALE. 

"  The  king  comandeth  his  constable  anon, 
Up  peyne  of  hangyng,  and  on  heigh  juyse, 
That  he  ne  sholde  suffren,  in  no  wyse, 
Custance  in-with  his  reawme  for  tabyde 
Thre  dayes  and  o  quarter  of  a  tyde ; 
But  in  the  same  ship  as  he  hire  fond, 


16  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Hire,  and  hir  yonge  sone,  and  al  hir  geere 
He  sholde  putte,  and  croude  hire  fro  the  lond, 
And  chargen  hire  she  never  eft  coome  theere !  " 
O  my  Custance,  wel  may  thy  goost  have  feere, 
And  slepynge  in  thy  dreem  been  in  penance, 
Whan  Donegild  cast  al  this  ordinance. 

This  messager  on  morwe,  when  he  wook, 
Un-to  the  castel  halt  the  nexte  way, 
And  to  the  constable  he  the  lettre  took ; 
And  whan  that  he  this  pitous  lettre  say, 
Ful  ofte  he  seyde,  "Alias!  and  weylaway ! 
Lord  Crist,"  quod  he,  "how  may  this  world  endure  ? 
So  ful  of  synne  is  many  a  creature ! 

"  O  myghty  God,  if  that  it  be  thy  wille, 
Sith  thou  art  rightful  juge,  how  may  it  be 
That  thou  wolt  suffren  innocentz  to  spille, 
And  wikked  folk  regnen  in  prosperitee  ? 
O  goode  Custance  !     Alias,  so  wo  is  me. 
That  I  moot  be  thy  tormentour  or  deye 
On  shames  deeth,  ther  is  noon  oother  weye." 

Wepen  bothe  yonge  and  olde  in  al  that  place, 
Whan  that  the  kyng  this  cursed  lettre  sente. 
And  Custance,  with  a  deedly  pale  face, 
The  ferthe  day  toward  the  ship  she  wente ; 
But  natheless  she  taketh  in  good  entente 
The  wyl  of  Crist  and  knelynge  on  the  stronde, 
She  seyde,  "  Lord  ay  wel-come  be  thy  sonde; 
He  that  me  kepte  fro  the  false  blame. 
While  I  was  on  the  lond  amonges  yow, 
He  kan  me  kepe  from  harm,  and  eek  fro  shame, 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER.  17 

In  salte  see,  al  thogh  I  se  noght  how, 
As  strong  as  evere  he  was  he  is  yet  now. 
In  hym  triste  I,  and  in  his  mooder  deere,  — 
That  is  to  me  my  seyl,  and  eek  my  steere." 
Hir  litel  child  lay  wepyng  in  hir  arm, 
And  knelynge,  pitously  to  hym  she  seyde, 
"Pees,  litel  sone,  I  wol  do  thee  noon  harm  !  " 
With  that  hir  kerchef  of  hir  heed  she  breyde 
And  over  hise  litel  eyen  she  it  leyde, 
And  in  her  arm  she  lulleth  it  ful  faste. 
And  in-to  hevene  hire  eyen  up  she  caste. 

"Mooder,"  quod  she,  "and  mayde,  bright  Marie, 
Sooth  in  that  thurgh  wommanes  eggement 
Man-kynde  was  lorn,  and  damned  ay  to  dye. 
For  which  thy  child  was  on  a  croys  yrent,  — 
Thy  blisful  eyen  sawe  al  his  torment,  — 
Thanne  is  ther  no  comparison  bitwene 
Thy  wo  and  any  wo  man  may  sustene. 
Thow  sawe  thy  child  yslayn  bifore  thyne  eyen. 
And  yet  now  lyveth  my  litel  child,  parfay  ! 
Now  lady  bright,  to  whom  alle  woful  cryen,  — 
Thow  glorie  of  wommanhede,  thow  faire  May, 
Thow  haven  of  refut,  brighte  sterre  of  day, 
Rewe  on  my  child,  that  of  thy  gentillesse 
Ruest  on  every  reweful  in  distresse. 

"  O  litel  child,  alias  !  what  is  thy  gilt. 
That  nevere  wroghtest  synne  as  yet  pardee  ? 
Why  wil  thyn  harde  fader  han  thee  spilt } 
O  mercy,  deere  constable,"  quod  she, 
"As  lat  my  litel  child  dwelle  heer  with  thee; 


18  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  if  thou  darst  nat  saven  hym  for  blame, 
Yet  kys  hym  ones  in  his  fadres  name ! " 
Ther  with  she  looked  bakward  to  the  londe, 
And  seyde,  "  Fare-wel,  housbonde  routheleess  !  " 
And  up  she  rist,  and  vvalketh  doun  the  stronde 
Toward  the  ship,  —  hir  folweth  al  the  prees,  — 
And  evere  she  preyeth  hire  child  to  hold  his  pees ; 
And  taketh  hir  leve,  and  with  an  hooly  entente. 
She  blissed  hire  and  in-to  ship  she  wente. 

Vitailled  was  the  ship,  it  is  no  drede, 
Habundantly  for  hire  ful  longe  space ; 
And  othere  necessaries  that  sholde  nede 
She  hadde  ynogh,  heryed  be  Goddes  grace ! 
For  wynd  and  weder,  almyghty  God  purchace ! 
And  bring  hire  hoom,  I  kan  no  bettre  seye ; 
But  in  the  see  she  dryveth  forth  hir  weye. 


THE    PRIORESSE'S    TALE. 

Ther  was  in  Asye,  in  a  greet  citee, 
Amonges  cristene  folk,  a  Jewerye, 
Sustened  by  a  lord  of  that  contree 
For  foule  usure,  and  lucre  of  vileynye, 
Hateful  to  Crist  and  to  his  compaignye; 
And  thurgh  the  strete  men  myghte  ride  or  wende, 
For  it  was  free,  and  open  at  eyther  ende. 
A  litel  scole  of  cristen  folk  ther  stood 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER.  19 

Doun  at  the  fcrther  ende,  in  which  ther  were 
Children  an  heepe,  yeomen  of  cristen  blood, 
That  lerned  in  that  scole  yeer  by  yere 
Swich  manere  doctrine  as  men  used  there, — 
This  is  to  seyn,  to  syngen  and  to  rede, 
As  smale  children  doon  in  hire  childhede. 
AmonsT  thise  children  was  a  wydwes  sone, 
A  litel  clergeoun,  seven  yeer  of  age^ 
That  day  by  day  to  schole  was  his  wone; 
And  eek  also,  where  as  he  saugh  thymage 
Of  Cristes  mooder,  he  hadde  in  usage. 
As  hym  was  taught,  to  knele  adoun  and  seye 
His  Ave  Marie,  as  he  goth  by  the  weye. 
Thus  hath  this  wydwe  her  litel  sone  ytaught 
Oure  blisful  lady,  Cristes  mooder  deere. 
To  worshipe  ay,  and  he  forgate  it  naught. 
For  sely  child  wol  alday  soone  leere, — 
But  ay  whan  I  remembre  on  this  mateere, 
Seint  Nicholas  stant  evere  in  my  presence, 
For  he  so  yong  to  Crist  dide  reverence. 

This  litel  child  his  litel  book  lernynge, 
As  he  sat  in  the  schole  at  his  prymer. 
He  Alma  redanptoris  herde  synge. 
As  children  lerned  hire  anthiphoner; 
And  as  he  dorste,  he  drough  hym  ner  and  ner, 
And  herkned  ay  the  wordes  and  the  noote, 
Til  he  the  firste  vers  koude  al  by  rote. 
Noght  wiste  he  what  this  Latyn  was  to  seye, 
For  he  so  yong  and  tendre  was  of  age; 
But  on  a  day  his  felawe  gan  he  preye 


20  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Texpounden  hym  this  song  in  his  langage, 
Or  telle  him  why  this  song  was  in  usage ; 
This  preyde  he  hym  to  construe  and  declare 
Ful  often  time  upon  his  knowes  bare. 

His  felawe,  which  that  elder  was  than  he, 
Answerde  hym  thus  :  "  This  song  I  have  here  seye 
Was  maked  of  oure  blisful  lady  free, 
Hire  to  salue,  and  eek  hire  for  to  preye 
To  been  oure  help  and  socour  whan  we  deye ; 
I  kan  na  moore  expounde  in  this  mateere, 
I  lerne  song,  I  kan  but  smal  grammeere," 

"  And  is  this  song  maked  in  reverence 
Of  Cristes  mooder  ?  "  seyde  this  innocent. 

"  Now  certes,  I  wol  do  my  diligence 
To  konne  it  al  er  Cristemasse  is  went, 
Though  that  I  for  my  prymer  shal  be  shent, 
And  shal  be  beten  thries  in  an  houre, 
I  wol  it  konne  our  lady  for  to  honoure  !  " 

His  felawe  taughte  hym  homward  prively 
Fro  day  to  day,  til  he  koude  it  by  rote. 
And  thanne  he  song  it  wel  and  boldely 
Fro  word  to  word,  acordynge  with  the  note. 
Twies  a  day  it  passed  thurgh  his  throte. 
To  scoleward  and  homward  whan  he  wente ; 
On  Cristes  mooder  set  was  his  entente. 

As  I  have  seyd,  thurgh-out  the  Jewerie 
This  litel  child,  as  he  cam  to  and  fro, 
Ful  murily  wolde  he  synge  and  crie 
O  Alma  redeniptoris  evere-mo. 
The  swetnesse  hath  his  herte  perced  so 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER.  21 

Of  Cristes  mooder,  that  to  hire  to  preye 
He  kan  nat  stynte  of  syngyng  by  the  weye. 

Oure  first  foo,  the  serpent  Sathanas, 
That  hath  in  Jewes  herte  his  waspes  nest, 
Up  swal,  and  seide,  "  O  Hebrayk  peple,  alias ! 
Is  this  to  yow  a  thyng  that  is  honest 
That  swich  a  boy  shal  walken  as  hym  lest 
In  your  despit,  and  synge  of  swich  sentence, 
Which  is  agayn  youre  lawes  reverence  ?  " 
Fro  thennes  forth  the  Jewes  han  conspired 
This  innocent  out  of  this  world  to  chace. 
An  homycide  ther-to  han  they  hyred, 
That  in  an  aleye  hadde  a  privee  place ; 
And  as  the  child  gan  forby  for  to  pace, 
This  cursed  Jew  hym  hente  and  heeld  hym  faste. 
And  kitte  his  throte,  and  in  a  pit  him  caste. 
I  seye  that  in  a  wardrobe  they  hym  threwe 
Where  as  thise  Jewes  purgen  hire  entraille. 

O  cursed  folk  of  Herodes  al  newe ! 
What  may  youre  yvel  entente  yow  availle  ? 
Mordre  wol  out  certeyn,  it  wol  nat  faille, 
And  namely,  ther  thonour  of  God  shal  sprede 
The  blood  out-crieth  on  youre  cursed  dede. 
O  martir,  sowded  to  virginitee! 
Now  maystow  syngen,  folwynge  evere  in  oon 
The  white  Lamb  celestial,  quod  she, 
Of  which  the  grete  Evaungelist,  Seint  John, 
In  Pathmos  wroot,  which  seith  that  they  that  goon 
Biforn  this  Lamb,  and  synge  a  song  al  newe, 
That  nevere  fleshly  wommen  they  ne  knewe. 


22  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

This  povre  wydwe  awaiteth  al  that  nyght 
After  hir  litel  child,  but  he  cam  noght, 
For  which,  as  soone  as  it  was  dayes  lyght, 
With  face  pale  of  drede  and  bisy  thoght, 
She  hath  at  schole  and  elles-where  hym  soght ; 
Til  finally  she  gan  so  fer  espie 
That  he  last  seyn  was  in  the  Jewerie, 
With  moodres  pitee  in  hir  brest  enclosed 
She  gooth,  as  she  were  half  out  of  hir  mynde, 
To  every  place  where  she  hath  supposed 
By  liklihede  hir  litel  child  to  fynde ; 
And  evere  on  Cristes  mooder,  meeke  and  kynde, 
She  cride,  and  atte  laste  thus  she  wroghte, 
Among  the  cursed  Jewes  she  hym  soghte. 
She  frayneth  and  she  preyeth  pitously, 
To  every  Jew  that  dwelte  in  thilke  place, 
To  telle  hire  if  hir  child  wente  oght  forby. 
They  seyde  "  Nay,"  but  Jhesu  of  his  grace 
Gaf  in  hir  thoght  inwith  a  litel  space, 
That  in  that  place  after  hir  sone  she  cryde. 
Where  he  was  casten  in  a  pit  bisyde. 

O  grete  God  that  parfournest  thy  laude 
By  mouth  of  innocentz,  lo  heere  thy  myght ! 
This  gemme  of  chastite,  this  emeraude, 
And  eek  of  martirdom  the  ruby  bright, 
Ther  he,  with  throte  ykorven  lay  upright. 
He  Alma  redemptoris  gan  to  synge 
So  loude,  that  all  the  place  gan  to  rynge ! 

The  cristene  folk  that  thurgh  the  strete  wente, 
In  coomen,  for  to  wondren  on  this  thyng; 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER.  23 

And  hastily  they  for  the  provost  sente. 
He  came  anon,  with  outen  tariyng, 
And  herieth  Crist  that  is  of  hevene  kyng, 
And  eek  his  mooder,  honour  of  mankynde, 
And  after  that  the  Jewes  leet  he  bynde. 

This  child,  with  pitous  lamentacioun, 
Up  taken  was,  syngynge  his  song  alway; 
And  with  honour  of  greet  processioun 
They  carien  hym  un-to  the  nexte  abbay. 
His  mooder  swownynge  by  his  beere  lay; 
Unnethe  myghte  the  peple  that  was  theere 
This  newe  Rachel  brynge  fro  his  beere. 
With  torment  and  with  shameful  deeth  echon, 
This  provost  dooth  the  Jewes  for  to  sterve. 
That  of  this  mordre  wiste,  and  that  anon ; 
He  nolde  no  swich  cursednesse  observe, 
"  Yvele  shal  have  that  yvele  wol  deserve," 
Therfore  with  wilde  hors  he  dide  hem  drawe, 
And  after  that  he  heng  hem  by  the  lawe. 

Up-on  his  beere  ay  lith  this  innocent 
Biforn  the  chief  auter,  whil  masse  laste. 
And  after  that  the  abbot  with  his  covent 
Han  sped  hem  for  to  burien  hym  ful  faste ; 
And  when  they  hooly  water  on  hym  caste, 
Yet  spak  this  child  whan  spreynd  was  hooly  water 
And  song,  O  Alma  redcmptoris  mater  ! 

This  abbot  which  that  was  an  hooly  man. 
As  monkes  been,  or  elles  oghte  be, 
This  yonge  child  to  conjure  he  bigan. 
And  seyde,  "  O  deere  child,  I  halse  thee, 


24  71VELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

In  vertu  of  the  hooly  Trinitee, 

Tel  me  what  is  thy  cause  for  to  synge, 

Sith  that  thy  throte  is  kut  to  my  semynge  ? " 

"  My  throte  is  kut  un-to  my  nekke  boon," 
Seyde  this  child,  "  and  as  by  wey  of  kynde 
I  sholde  have  dyed,  ye,  longe  tyme  agon; 
But  Jhesu  Crist,  as  ye  in  bookes  fynde, 
Wil,  that  his  glorie  laste  and  be  in  mynde. 
And  for  the  worship  of  his  mooder  deere. 
Yet  may  I  synge  O  Alma  loude  and  cleere. 

"  This  welle  of  mercy,  Cristes  mooder  sweete, 
I  loved  alwey,  as  after  my  konnynge. 
And  whan  that  I  my  lyf  sholde  forlete. 
To  me  she  cam,  and  bad  me  for  to  synge 
This  anthem  verraily  in  my  deyynge. 
As  ye  han  herd,  and  whan  that  I  hadde  songe 
Me  thoughte  she  leyde  a  greyn  up-on  my  tonge : 
Wherfore  I  synge,  and  synge  I  moot  certeyn 
In  honour  of  that  blisful  mayden  free. 
Til  fro  my  tonge  of -taken  is  the  greyn; 
And  afterward  thus  seyde  she  to  me, 

'  My  litel  child  now  wol  I  fecche  thee 
Whan  that  the  greyn  is  fro  thy  tonge  ytake; 
Be  nat  agast,  I  wol  thee  nat  forsake.'  " 

This  hooly  monk,  this  abbot,  hym  meene  I, 
His  tonge  out  caughte  and  took  awey  the  greyn. 
And  he  gaf  up  the  goost  ful  softely. 
And  whan  this  abbot  hadde  this  wonder  seyn, 
Hise  sake  teeris  trikled  doun  as  reyn. 
And  gruf  he  fil,  al  plat  upon  the  grounde, 


GEOFFREY   CHAUCER.  25 


And  stille  he  lay  as  he  had  ben  ybounde. 
The  covent  eek  lay  on  the  pavement 
Wepynge,  and  heryen  Cristes  mooder  deere, 
And  after  that  they  ryse  and  forth  been  went, 
And  tooken  awey  this  martir  from  his  beere ; 
And  in  a  temple  of  marbul  stones  cleere, 
Enclosen  they  his  litel  body  sweete  : 
Ther  he  is  now,  God  leve  us  for  to  meete ! 

O  yonge  Hugh  of  Lyncoln,  slayn  also 
With  cursed  Jewes,  as  it  is  notable, 
For  it  is  but  a  litel  while  ago, 
Preye  eek  for  us,  we  synful  folk  unstable, 
That  of  his  mercy  God,  so  merciable. 
On  us  his  grete  mercy  multiplie 
For  reverence  of  his  mooder,  Marie.     Amen. 


From 
THE   DETHE   OF    BLAUNCHE,    THE   DUCHESSE. 

I  HAVE  of  sorwe  so  grete  wone 

That  joy  gete  I  never  none, 

Now  that  I  see  my  lady  bryght. 

Which  I  have  loved  with  al  my  myght, 
Is  fro  me  ded  and  ys  a-goon 
And  thus  in  sorowe  lefte  me  alone. 

Alias,  Dethc,  what  ayleth  the 
That  thou  noldest  have  taken  me 


26  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Whan  thou  toke  my  lady  swete 
That  was  so  faire,  so  freshe,  so  fre, 
So  goode,  that  men  may  wel  se 
Of  al  goodenesse  she  had  no  mete. 

Tfr  Tjt  y^  vp 

"  I  sawgh  hyr  daunce  so  comelely, 
Carole  and  synge  so  swetly, 
Lawghe  and  pley  so  womanly, 
And  loke  so  debonairly, 
So  goodely  speke,  and  so  frendly, 
That  certes,  I  trowe  that  ever-more 
Nas  seyne  so  blysful  a  tresore, 
For  every  heere  on  hir  hede, 
Soth  to  seyne,  hyt  was  not  rede, 
Ne  nouther  yelowe,  ne  broune  hyt  nas, 
Me  thoghte  most  lyke  gold  hyt  was. 

"  And  which  eyen  my  lady  hadde ! 
Debonair,  goode,  glade,  and  sadde, 
Symple,  of  goode  mochel,  noght  to  wyde, 
Ther-to  hir  looke  was  not  a-syde, 
Ne  overtwert,  but  besette  so  wele, 
Hyt  drewh  and  tooke  up  everydele 
Al  that  on  hir  gan  be-holde. 
Hir  eyen  semed  anoon  she  wolde 
Have  mercy, — foolys  wenden  soo  — 
But  hyt  was  never  the  rather  doo ; 
Hyt  nas  no  countrefeted  thynge, 
Hyt  was  hir  oune  pure  lokynge 
That  the  goddesse,  dame  Nature, 
Had  made  hem  opene  by  mesure, 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER.  27 

And  cloos;  for  were  she  never  so  glad 
Her  lokynge  was  not  foly  sprad, 
Ne  wildely,  thogh  that  she  pleyde; 
But  ever  me  thoght  hir  eyen  seyde, 
'  Be  God,  my  wrathe  ys  al  for-give!' 

"  Therwith  hir  lyste  so  wel  to  lyve, 
That  dulnesse  was  of  hir  a  drad. 
She  nas  to  sobre,  ne  to  glad." 

THE   LEGENDE   OF    GOODE   WOMEN. 

From  The  Prologue. 

A  THOUSANDE  tymes  I  have  herde  telle, 

There  ys  joy  in  hevene,  and  peyne  in  helle, 

And  I  acorde  wel  that  it  ys  so; 

But  natheles,  yet  wot  I  wel  also. 

That  ther  is  noon  dwellyng  in  this  countree, 

That  eythir  hath  in  hevene  or  helle  ybe, 

Ne  may  of  hit  noon  other  weyes  witen, 

But  as  he  hath  herd  seyde,  or  founde  it  writen ; 

For  by  assay  ther  may  no  man  it  preve. 

But  God  forbede  but  men  shulde  leve 
Wel  more  thing  then  men  han  seen  with  eye ! 
Men  shal  not  wenen  every  thing  a  lye 
But-yf  hymselfe  yt  seeth,  or  elles  dooth; 
For,  God  wot,  thing  is  never  the  lasse  sooth, 
Thogh  every  wight  ne  may  it  not  ysee. 
Bernarde,  the  monke,  ne  saugh  nat  alle,  parde! 

Than  mote  we  to  bokes  that  we  fynde, — 
Thurgh  which  that  olde  thinges  ben  in  mynde, — 


28  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  to  the  doctrine  of  these  olde  wyse, 
Geve  credence,  in  every  skylful  wise, 
That  tellen  of  these  olde  appreved  stories. 
Of  holynesse,  of  regnes,  of  victories. 
Of  love,  of  hate,  and  other  sondry  thynges, 
Of  which  I  may  not  maken  rehersynges. 
And  yf  that  olde  bokes  were  awey, 
Ylorne  were  of  remembraunce  the  key. 
Wei  ought  us,  thanne,  honouren  and  beleve 
These  bokes,  there  we  han  noon  other  preve. 

And  as  for  me,  though  that  I  konne  but  lyte, 
On  bokes  for  to  rede  I  me  delyte. 
And  to  hem  give  I  feyth  and  ful  credence, 
And  in  myn  herte  have  hem  in  reverence 
So  hertely,  that  ther  is  game  noon 
That  fro  my  bokes  maketh  me  to  goon, 
But  yt  be  seldom  on  the  holy  day, 
Save  certeynly,  whan  that  the  monethe  of  May 
Is  comen,  and  that  I  hear  the  foules  synge. 
And  that  the  floures  gynnen  for  to  sprynge, — 
Fairewel  my  boke,  and  my  devocioun ! 

Now  have  I  thanne  suche  a  condicioun, 
That  of  alle  the  floures  in  the  mede, 
Thanne  love  I  most  thise  floures  white  and  rede, 
Suche  as  men  callen  daysyes  in  her  toune. 
To  hem  have  I  so  grete  affeccioun, 
As  I  seyde  erst,  whanne  comen  is  the  May, 
That  in  my  bed  ther  daweth  me  no  day. 
That  I  nam  uppe  and  walkyng  in  the  mede. 
To  seen  this  floure  agein  the  sonne  sprede, 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER.  29 

Whan  it  up  rysith  erly  by  the  morwe ; 
That  blisful  sight  softeneth  al  my  sorwe, 
So  glad  am  I,  when  that  I  have  presence 
Of  it,  to  doon  it  alle  reverence, 
As  she  that  is  of  alle  floures  flour, 
Fulfilled  of  al  vertue  and  honour. 
And  evere  ilike  faire,  and  fresshe  of  hewe. 
And  I  love  it,  and  evere  ylike  newe. 
And  ever  shal,  til  that  myn  herte  dye. 

THE   COMPLEYNTE  OF   CHAUCER   TO    HIS 

PURSE. 

To  you,  my  purse,  and  to  noon  other  wight 
Compleyn  I,  for  ye  be  my  lady  dere! 

I  am  so  sorry  now  that  ye  been  lyght, 

For  certes,  but-yf  ye  make  me  hevy  chere, 
Me  were  as  leef  be  layde  upon  my  bere, 

For  which  unto  your  mercy  thus  I  crye,  — 

Beth  hevy  ageyne,  or  elles  mote  I  dye! 

Now  voucheth  sauf  this  day,  or  it  be  nyghte, 
That  I  of  you  the  blissful  soune  may  here. 

Or  see  your  colour  lyke  the  sonne  bryghte, 
That  of  yelownesse  hadde  never  pere. 
Ye  be  my  lyfe!  ye  be  myn  hertys  stere! 

Queue  of  comfort  and  goode  companye! 

Beth  hevy  ageyne,  or  elles  mote  I  dye. 

Now  purse,  that  ben  to  me  my  lyves  lyght 
And  saveour,  as  doun  in  this  worlde  here, 


30  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Oute  of  this  toune  helpe  me  thurgh  your  myght, 
Syn  that  ye  wole  not  bene  my  tresorere; 
For  I  am  shave  as  nye  as  is  a  frere. 
But  I  praye  unto  your  curtesye, 
Beth  hevy  ageyn,  or  elles  moote  I  dye! 

LEnvoye  de  Chaucer. 

O  conquerour  of  Brutes  Albyoun, 
Whiche  that  by  lygne  and  free  eleccioun 

Been  verray  kynge,  this  song  to  you  I  sende, 
And  ye  that  mowen  alle  myn  harme  amende, 
Have  mynde  upon  my  supplicacioun! 


FLE   FRO   THE   PRES. 

Fle  fro  the  pres  and  duelle  with  sothfastnesse; 
Suffice  the  thy  good,  though  hit  be  smale; 

For  horde  hath  hate  and  clymbyng  tikelnesse, 
Pres  hath  envye  and  wele  is  blent  over  alle. 
Savour  no  more  then  the  behove  shalle; 

Reule  wel  thyself  that  other  folke  canst  rede, 

And  trouthe  the  shal  delyver,  hit  ys  no  drede. 

Peyne  the  not  eche  croked  to  redresse 
In  trust  of  hire  that  turneth  as  a  balle, 

Grete  reste  stant  in  lytil  besynesse; 
Bewar  also  to  spurn  agein  an  nalle, 
Stryve  not  as  doth  a  croke  with  a  walle; 

Daunte  thyselfe  that  dauntest  otheres  dede. 

And  trouthe  the  shal  delyver,  hit  is  no  drede. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER.  31 

That  the  ys  sent  receyve  in  buxumnesse, 
The  wrasteling  of  this  world  asketh  a  fall; 

Her  is  no  home,  her  is  but  wyldyrnesse. 

Forth,  Pilgrime  !    Forth,  best,  out  of  thy  stalle! 
Loke  up  on  hye  and  thonke  God  of  alle; 

Weyve  thy  luste  and  let  thy  goste  the  lede. 

And  trouthe  the  shal  delyver,  hit  is  no  drede! 


n.    EDMUND   SPENSER. 

1553-1598- 

To  find  the  hand  stretched  out  to  take  the  torch  from 
Chaucer,  we  come  from  a  great  reign  and  a  brilliant  court 
to  a  greater  reign  and  a  more  brilliant  court  —  from  the 
Plantagenets  to  the  Tudors ;  from  the  time  of  Edward  the 
Third  and  his  grandsons,  Richard  and  Henry,  to  "  the  glori- 
ous days  of  good  Queen  Bess";  from  Geoffrey  Chaucer  to 
Edmund  Spenser.  A  hundred  and  fifty  years  lie  between 
these  two  singers,  and  in  all  that  time  England  did  not  hear 
the  voice  of  a  great  poet.  She  was  busy  enough  with  the 
Wars  of  the  Roses,  and  the  introduction  of  printing,  and 
the  introduction  of  the  Protestant  faith,  and  the  growth  of 
her  commerce,  and  the  development  of  her  language,  and 
the  wonders  of  the  New  World ;  but  with  all  this  working 
there  was  very  little  singing. 

At  last,  however,  she  found  a  voice,  and  then  there  was 
never  such  music  heard  before.  In  1553  Spenser  was  born, 
in  the  shadow  of  London  Tower.  Like  Chaucer,  he  was 
poor,  but  he  belonged  to  a  noble  family.  When  a  little  lad 
he  was  sent  to  the  Merchant  Taylors'  School ;  and  to-day, 
if  any  boy  in  London  goes  down  past  Smithfield  and  the 
Great  Market,  where,  in  the  reign  of  Bloody  Mary,  fires 
burned  for  the  heretics,  and  inquires  his  way  to  the  Char- 
terhouse, he  may  hear  the  laughter  and  shouts  of  boys 
at  cricket  on  the  great  playground  which  now  belongs  to 
this  very  Merchant  Taylors'  School.  A  little  while  ago  an 
account-book  of  one  of  these  rich  old  merchants  was  found, 

33 


34  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

and  in  it  was  marked,  among  other  things,  a  sum  given  to 
"  Edmund  Spensore,  scholar  of  the  Merchant  Taylors' 
School  on  going  to  Pembroke  Hall,  Cambridge." 

There  the  young  scholar  richly  rewarded  his  benefactor, 
and  gained  the  two  great  benefits  of  college  life,  a  good 
education  and  good  friends.  "  He  became  very  perfect  in 
the  Greek  tongue,"  and  he  became  the  friend  of  Gabriel 
Harvey,  who  afterwards  introduced  him  to  Sir  Philip  Sid- 
ney, through  whom  he  came  to  know  the  Earl  of  Leicester 
and  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  and  all  the  train  of  brave  and  gay 
and  gallant  scholars,  wits,  voyagers,  and  courtiers  who  made 
up  the  famous  court  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Spenser  lived  in 
the  "  North  Country  "  for  two  years  after  he  left  Cambridge, 
and  there  he  fell  in  love  with  the  "  Widdowes'  daughter  of 
the  Glen,"  the  "fair  Rosalind."  Not  long  afterward  he 
wrote  his  "  Shepheardes  Calender  " —  twelve  pastoral  poems, 
in  which  he  calls  on  "The  Gods  of  Love,  that  pitie  lovers' 
paine,"  to  hear  the  lament  of  Colin  who  cannot  win  fair 
Rosalind.  He  wrote,  too,  in  his  earlier  days,  some  fine 
hymns  in  praise  of  love  and  beauty,  the  love  which  is 

"  Lord  of  Truth  and  Loyalty, 
Lifting  himself  out  of  the  lowly  dust 
On  golden  plumes  up  to  the  purest  sky." 

Spenser  was  poor,  but  his  patrons,  Sidney  and  Leicester, 
introduced  him  at  court,  and  he  was  appointed  secretary  to 
Lord  Grey  de  Wilton,  the  Lord  Deputy  who  was  sent  to 
suppress  Desmond's  rebellion  in  Ireland.  Spenser  went 
with  him  and  settled  down  to  live  at  Kilcolman  Castle, 
which,  with  three  thousand  acres  of  land,  was  given  him  by 
the  Crown,  and  which  had  belonged  to  the  rebellious  Des- 
monds. He  seems  to  have  been  consoled  for  the  loss  of 
Rosalind,   for  he    married    a   lady   named   Elizabeth,   with 


EDMUND   SDENSER.  35 

whom  for  years  he  was  very  happy.  At  length,  in  a  great 
uprising  of  the  rebels,  his  castle  was  sacked  and  destroyed, 
his  fortunes  were  ruined,  and  one  of  his  little  children  was 
burned  to  death.  He  came  back  to  London  poor  and  broken- 
hearted, and  after  being  there  only  three  months  he  died, 
and  was  buried  in  the  Poets'  Corner  of  the  Abbey.  The 
great  Essex  ordered  his  funeral,  and  when  he  had  lain 
quiet,  close  to  Chaucer,  for  thirty  years,  Anne,  Countess  of 
Dorset,  raised  a  monument  to  him,  on  which  we  still  read  : 

"  Heare  lyes  (expecting  the  second  comminge  of  our  Savior 
Jesus)  the  body  of  Edmonde  Spenser,  the  Prince  of  Poets  in  his 
tyme,  whose  divine  spirit  needs  noe  othir  witnesse  than  the  works 
he  left  behinde  him. 

"He  was  born  in  London  in  the  yeare  1553  and  died  in  the 
yeare   1598." 

"  The  Prince  of  Poets  in  his  tyme," 

"The  New  Poet," 

"The  Sage  and  Serious  Spenser," 

"The  Poets' Poet," 

"The  Don  Quixote  of  Poets,  serenely  abstracted  and  high," 

—  these  are  the  familiar  titles  which  have   been  given   to 

Spenser  in  the  last  three  hundred  years.     His  "  Shepheardes 

Calender,"  dedicated  to  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  made  him  famous. 

His  "  Mother  Hubberd's  Tale,"  his  "  Sonnets,"  his  noble 

"  Epithalamion,"  or  Wedding   Hymn,  his   "  Astrophel,"   or 

Lament  for  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  all  added  to  his  fame,  but  it 

was  his  great  poem  of  the  "Faerie  Queene  "  which  crowned 

this  fame  and  made  it  live. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  went  once  to  visit  Spenser  in  Ireland, 
and  every  boy  must  read  Kingsley's  glorious  story  of 
"  Westward  Ho  "  to  get  the  most  perfect  picture  of  this  visit. 
Spenser  reads  Raleigh  the  first  three  books  of  the  "Faerie 


36  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Queene,"  and  the  brother  poet  in  delight  hurries  him  off  to 
London  to  publish  it  to  the  world.  In  a  letter  to  Raleigh 
Spenser  explains  the  plan  of  the  work,  which  is  dedicated 
to  "  The  Most  Mightie  and  Magnificent  Empresse  Elizabeth, 
by  the  Grace  of  God  Queen  of  England,  France,  and  Ire- 
land, Defender  of  the  Faith."  He  says  the  general  end  of 
all  the  book  is  "  to  fashion  a  gentleman  or  noble  person 
in  vertuous  and  gentle  discipline."  Prince  Arthur  is  to  be 
the  hero  of  the  whole  poem.  In  twelve  books  he  is  "  to  be 
perfected  in  the  twelve  private  moral  virtues,"  each  virtue 
having  its  own  knight  and  his  exploits.  Then  twelve  more 
books  are  to  be  written  on  the  political  virtues.  Prince 
Arthur  is  meant  to  represent  Magnificence,  or  greatness  of 
soul.  The  Faerie  Queene,  to  whose  court  he  goes,  and  from 
which  the  twelve  knights  start  out  upon  their  separate  adven- 
tures, is  first  Glory,  and  then,  in  a  secondary  way,  "  The  most 
excellent  and  glorious  person  of  the  Sovereign  Queen  Eliza- 
beth." All  of  this  part  of  the  story  was  to  appear  in  the  twelfth 
book,  but  only  six  books  were  written.  The  first  of  these 
books  narrates  the  adventures  of  the  Red  Cross  Knight,  or 
Holiness,  and  his  fair  Una,  or  Religion  ;  the  second  book 
belongs  to  Sir  Guyon,  or  Temperance  ;  the  third,  fourth,  fifth, 
and  sixth,  to  Chastity,  Friendship,  Justice,  and  Courtesy. 

But  it  is  not  for  the  story  that  we  prize  the  "  Faerie 
Queene."  Its  greatness  lies  in  its  rich,  beautiful  pictures, 
in  its  wonderful  musical  verse,  in  its  high  imagination,  in  its 
own  magic  enchantment.  All  the  poets  have  loved  it  —  this 
is  why  Charles  Lamb  calls  Spenser  "  The  Poets'  Poet "  — 
and  all  young  people  may  learn  to  love  it.  "  It  is  not  so  far 
off  from  any  one  of  us,"  Kingsley  makes  Spenser  say  to 
Raleigh  in  "  Westward  Ho  ";  "  wherever  is  love  and  loyalty, 
great  purposes  and  lofty  souls,  even  though  in  a  hovel  or  in 
a  mine,  there  is  fairy  land." 


From, 

THE  FIRSTE  BOOKE  OF   THE  FAERIE   QUEENE. 

Contayning  the  Legend  of  the  Knight  of  the  Red  Crosse^ 

or  of  Holinesse. 

I. 

Lo !  I,  the  man  whose  Muse  whylome  did  maske, 
As  time  her  taught,  in  lowly  shepheards  weeds, 
Am  now  enforst  a  farre  unfitter  taske. 
For  trumpets  sterne  to  chaunge  mine  oaten  reeds, 
And  sing  of  knights  and  ladies  gentle  deeds; 
Whose  praises  having  slept  in  silence  long. 
Me  all  too  meane,  the  sacred  Muse  areeds 
To  blazon  broade  emongst  her  learned  throng : 
Fierce  warres  and  faithful  loves  shall  moralize  my  song. 

II. 

Help  then,  O  holy  virgin!  chiefe  of  nyne. 

Thy  weaker  novice  to  perform  thy  will ; 

Lay  forth  out  of  thine  everlasting  scryne 

The  antique  rolles,  which  there  lye  hidden  still, 

Of  Faerie  knights  and  fayrest  Tanaquill, 

Whom  that  most  noble  Briton  prince  so  long 

Sought  through  the  world,  and  suffered  so  much  ill. 

That  I  must  rue  his  undeserved  wrong : 

O,  helpe  thou  my  weake  wit,  and  sharpen  my  dull  tong  ! 


38  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

III. 

And  thou,  most  dreaded  impe  of  highest  love, 

Fair  Venus  sonne,  that  with  thy  cruell  dart 

At  that  good  knight  so  cunningly  didst  rove, 

That  glorious  fire  it  kindled  in  his  hart; 

Lay  now  thy  deadly  heben  bowe  apart, 

And,  with  thy  mother  mylde,  come  to  mine  ayde ; 

Come,  both;  and  with  you  bring  triumphant  Mart, 

In  loves  and  gentle  iollities  arraid, 

After  his  murdrous  spoyles  and  bloudie  rage  allayd. 

IV. 

And  with  them  eke,  O  goddesse  heavenly  bright, 

Mirrour  of  grace  and  majestic  divine. 

Great  Ladie  of  the  greatest  Isle,  whose  light 

Like  Phoebus  lampe  throughout  the  world  doth  shine, 

Shed  thy  faire  beames  into  my  feeble  eyne, 

And  raise  my  thoughtes,  too  humble  and  too  vile, 

To  thinke  of  that  true  glorious  type  of  thine. 

The  argument  of  mine  afflicted  stile: 

The  which  to  heare,  vouchsafe,  O  dearest  Dread,  a  while. 

CANTO   I. 

The  patron  of  true  Holinesse 

Foule  Errour  doth  defeate  ; 
Hypocrisie,  him  to  entrappe, 

Doth  to  his  home  entreate. 

I. 

A  GENTLE  knight  was  pricking  on  the  plaine, 
Ycladd  in  mightie  armes  and  silver  shielde, 


EDMUND   SPENSER.  39 

Wherein  old  dints  of  deepe  woundes  did  remaine, 

The  cruel  markes  of  many  a  bloody  fielde; 

Yet  armes  till  that  time  did  he  never  wield: 

His  angry  steede  did  chide  his  foaming  bitt, 

As  much  disdayning  to  the  curbe  to  yield: 

Full  iolly  knight  he  seemd,  and  faire  did  sitt, 

As  one  for  knightly  giusts  and  fierce  encounters  fitt. 

II. 

And  on  his  brest  a  bloodie  crosse  he  bore, 

The  deare  remembrance  of  his  dying  Lord, 

For  whose  sweete  sake  that  glorious  badge  he  wore, 

And  dead,  as  living,  ever  him  ador'd : 

Upon  his  shield  the  like  was  also  scor'd 

For  soveraine  hope,  which  in  his  helpe  he  had. 

Right,  faithfull,  true  he  was  in  deede  and  word ; 

But  of  his  cheere  did  seeme  too  solemne  sad ; 

Yet  nothing  did  he  dread,  but  ever  was  ydrad. 

III. 

Upon  a  great  adventure  he  was  bond. 

That  greatest  Gloriana  to  him  gave, 

(That  greatest  glorious  Queene  of  Faery  Lond) 

To  winne  him  worshippe,  and  her  grace  to  have, 

Which  of  all  earthly  thinges  he  most  did  crave. 

And  ever  as  he  rode,  his  hart  did  earne 

To  prove  his  puissance  in  battel  brave 

Upon  his  foe,  and  his  new  force  to  learne; 

Upon  his  foe,  a  dragon  horrible  and  stearne. 


40  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

IV. 

A  lovely  ladie  rode  him  faire  beside, 
Upon  a  lowly  asse  more  white  than  snow; 
Yet  she  much  whiter  ;  but  the  same  did  hide 
Under  a  vele,  that  wimpled  was  full  lowe; 
And  over  all  a  blacke  stole  shee  did  throw, 
As  one  that  inly  mournd;  so  was  she  sad, 
And  heavie  sate  upon  her  palfrey  slow; 
Seemed  in  heart  some  hidden  care  she  had; 
And  by  her  in  a  line  a  milke-white  lambe  she  lad. 


So  pure  and  innocent,  as  that  same  lambe, 

She  was  in  life  and  every  vertuous  lore. 

And  by  descent  from  royall  lynage  came 

Of  ancient  kinges  and  queenes,  that  had  of  yore 

Their  scepters  stretcht  from  east  to  westerne  shore 

And  all  the  world  in  their  subjection  held; 

Till  that  infernal  feend  with  foule  uprore 

Forwasted  all  their  land,  and  them  expeld ; 

Whom  to  avenge,  she  had  this  knight  from  far  compeld. 

VI. 

Behind  her  farre  away  a  dwarfe  did  lag, 

That  lasie  seemd,  in  being  ever  last, 

Or  wearied  with  bearing  of  her  bag 

Of  needments  at  his  backe.     Thus  as  they  past. 

The  day  with  cloudes  was  suddeine  overcast, 

And  angry  love  an  hideous  storme  of  raine 


EDMUND  SPENSER.  41 

Did  poure  into  his  lemans  lap  so  fast, 

That  everie  wight  to  shrowd  it  did  constrain ; 

And  this  faire  couple  eke  to  shroud  themselves  were  fain. 

VII. 

Enforst  to  seek  some  covert  nigh  at  hand, 
A  shadie  grove  not  farr  away  they  spide. 
That  promist  ayde  the  tempest  to  withstand ; 
Whose  loftie  trees,  yclad  with  sommers  pride 
Did  spred  so  broad,  that  heavens  light  did  hide. 
Not  perceable  with  power  of  any  starr : 
And  all  within  were  pathes  and  alleles  wide. 
With  footing  worne,  and  leading  inward  farr: 
Faire  harbour  that  them  seems  ;   so  in  they  entred  ar. 
*         *         *         * 

XXIX. 

At  length  they  chaunst  to  meet  upon  the  way 

An  aged  sire,  in  long  blacke  weedes  yclad. 

His  feete  all  bare,  his  beard  all  hoarie  gray. 

And  by  his  belt  his  booke  he  hanging  had; 

Sober  he  seemde,  and  very  sagely  sad  ; 

And  to  the  ground  his  eyes  were  lowly  bent. 

Simple  in  shew,  and  voide  of  malice  bad  ; 

And  all  the  way  he  prayed,  as  he  went. 

And  often  knockt  his  brest,  as  one  that  did  repent. 

XXX. 

He  faire  the  knight  saluted,  louting  low, 
Who  faire  him  quited,  as  that  courteous  was ; 


42  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  after  asked  him,  if  he  did  know 

Of  straunge  adventures,  which  abroad  did  pas. 

"Ah  !  my  dear  sonne,"  quoth  he,  "how  should,  alas  ! 

Silly  old  man,  that  lives  in  hidden  cell. 

Bidding  his  beades  all  day  for  his  trespas, 

Tydings  of  warre  and  worldly  trouble  tell  ? 

With  holy  father  sits  not  with  such  thinges  to  mell. 

XXXI. 

"  But  if  of  daunger,  which  hereby  doth  dwell, 
And  homebredd  evil  ye  desire  to  heare, 
Of  a  straunge  man  I  can  you  tidings  tell, 
That  wasteth  all  this  countrie  farre  and  neare." 
"  Of  such,"  saide  he,  "  I  chiefly  doe  inquere; 
And  shall  thee  well  rewarde  to  shew  the  place. 
In  which  that  wicked  wight  his  dayes  doth  weare  : 
For  to  all  knighthood  it  is  foule  disgrace. 
That  such  a  cursed  creature  lives  so  long  a  space." 

XXXII. 

"Far  hence,"  quoth  he,  "in  wastfuU  wildernesse 

His  dwelling  is,  by  which  no  living  wight 

May  ever  passe,  but  thorough  great  distresse." 

"Now,"  saide  the  ladie,  "draweth  toward  night; 

And  well  I  wote,  that  of  your  later  fight 

Ye  all  forwearied  be  ;  for  what  so  strong, 

But,  wanting  rest,  will  also  want  of  might  ? 

The  sunne,  that  measures  heaven  all  day  long, 

At  night  doth  baite  his  steedes  the  ocean  waves  emong. 


EDMUND  SPENSER.  43 


XXXIII. 


"Then  with  the  sunne  take,  Sir,  your  timely  rest, 
And  with  new  day  new  worke  at  once  begin  : 
Untroubled  night,  they  say,  gives  counsell  best." 
"  Right  well,  Sir  Knight,  ye  have  advised  bin," 
Quoth  then  that  aged  man  ;  "  the  way  to  win 
Is  wisely  to  advise.     Now  day  is  spent  : 
Therefore  with  me  ye  may  take  up  your  in 
For  this  same  night."     The  knight  was  well  content 
So  with  that  godly  father  to  his  home  they  went. 

xxxiv. 

A  little  lowly  hermitage  it  was, 

Downe  in  a  dale,  hard  by  a  forests  side, 

Far  from  resort  of  people,  that  did  pas 

In  traveill  to  and  fro  :  a  little  wyde 

There  was  an  holy  chappell  edifyde, 

Wherein  the  hermite  dewly  wont  to  say 

His  holy  things  each  morne  and  eventyde  : 

Thereby  a  christall  streame  did  gently  play. 

Which  from  a  sacred  fountaine  welled  forth  alway. 

XXXV, 

Arrived  there,  the  litle  house  they  fill, 
Ne  looke  for  entertainement,  where  none  was ; 
Rest  is  their  feast,  and  all  thinges  at  their  will. 
The  noblest  mind  the  best  contentment  has. 
With  faire  discourse  the  evening  so  they  pas  ; 
For  that  olde  man  of  pleasing  wordes  had  store, 


44  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  well  could  file  his  tongue,  as  smooth  as  glas 
He  told  of  saintes  and  popes,  and  evermore 
He  strowd  an  Ave-Mary  after  and  before. 


CANTO  III. 


Nought  is  there  under  heavn's  wide  hollownesse, 
That  moves  more  deare  compassion  of  mind. 
Then  beautie  brought  t'unworthie  wretchednesse 
Through  envies  snares,  or  fortunes  freakes  unkind. 
I,  whether  lately  through  her  brightnes  blynd, 
Or  through  alleageance,  and  fast  fealty, 
Which  I  do  owe  unto  all  womankynd, 
Feele  my  hart  perst  with  so  great  agony, 
When  such  I  see,  that  all  for  pitty  I  could  dy. 

II. 
And  now  it  is  empassioned  so  deepe, 
For  fairest  Unaes  sake,  of  whom  I  sing, 
That  my  frayle  eies  these  lines  with  teares  do  steepe, 
To  thinke  how  she  through  guyleful  handeling, 
Though  true  as  touch,  though  daughter  of  a  king, 
Though  faire  as  ever  living  wight  was  fayre, 
Though  nor  in  word  nor  deede  ill  meriting, 
Is  from  her  knight  divorced  in  despayre. 
And  her  dew  loves  deryv'd  to  that  vile  witches  shayre. 


EDMUND  SPENSER.  45 

III. 

Yet  she,  most  faithful!  ladie,  all  this  while 

Forsaken,  wofull,  solitarie  mayd. 

Far  from  all  peoples  preace,  as  in  exile. 

In  wildernesse  and  wastfuU  deserts  strayd, 

To  seeke  her  knight ;  who,  subtily  betrayd  [wrought. 

Through  that  late  vision  which  th'  enchaunter 

Had  her  abandond ;  she  of  nought  afrayd. 

Through  woods  and  wastnes  wide  him  daily  sought, 

Yet  wished  tydinges  none  of  him  unto  her  brought. 

IV. 

One  day,  nigh  wearie  of  the  yrkesome  way. 

From  her  unhastie  beast  she  did  alight ; 

And  on  the  grasse  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 

In  secrete  shadow,  far  from  all  mens  sight ; 

From  her  fayre  head  her  fillet  she  undight. 

And  layd  her  stole  aside ;  Her  angels  face. 

As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  shyned  bright. 

And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place.; 

Did  never  mortall  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace. 


It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 
A  ramping  lyon  rushed  suddeinly, 
Hunting  full  greedy  after  salvage  blood  ; 
Soone  as  the  royall  virgin  he  did  spy, 
With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily, 
To  have  attonce  devourd  her  tender  corse ; 


46  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

But  to  the  pray  when  as  he  drew  more  ny, 

His  bloody  rage  as  waged  with  remorse, 

And,  with  the  sight  amazd,  forgat  his  furious  forse. 

VI. 

Instead  thereof,  he  kist  her  wearie  feet, 

And  lickt  her  lilly  hands  with  fawning  tong ; 

As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet. 

O  how  can  beautie  maister  the  most  strong, 

And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong ! 

Whose  yielded  pryde  and  proud  submission, 

Still  dreading  death,  when  she  had  marked  long, 

Her  hart  gan  melt  in  great  compassion ; 

And  drizling  teares  did  shed  for  pure  affection. 

VII. 

"  The  lyon,  lord  of  everie  beast  in  field," 

Quoth  she,  "  his  princely  puissance  doth  abate. 

And  mightie  proud  to  humble  weake  does  yield, 

Forgetfull  of  the  hungry  rage,  which  late 

Him  prickt,  in  pittie  of  my  sad  estate  :  — 

But  he,  my  lyon,  and  my  noble  lord. 

How  does  he  find  in  cruell  hart  to  hate 

Her,  that  him  lov'd,  and  ever  most  adord 

As  the  god  of  my  life  ?  why  hath  he  me  abhord  V 

VIII. 

Redounding  teares  did  choke  th'  end  of  her  plaint. 
Which  softly  ecchoed  from  the  neighbour  wood ; 
And,  sad  to  see  her  sorrowfull  constraint. 


EDMUND  SPENSER.  47 

The  kingly  beast  upon  her  gazing  stood  ; 

With  pittie  calmd,  downe  fell  his  angry  mood. 

At  last,  in  close  hart  shutting  up  her  payne, 

Arose  the  virgin,  borne  of  heavenly  brood, 

And  to  her  snowy  palfrey  got  agayne, 

To  seeke  her  strayed  champion  if  she  might  attayne. 

IX. 

The  lyon  would  not  leave  her  desolate, 

But  with  her  went  along,  as  a  strong  gard 

Of  her  chast  person,  and  a  faythfull  mate 

Of  her  sad  troubles  and  misfortunes  hard  ; 

Still,  when  she  slept,  he  kept  both  watch  and  ward ; 

And,  when  she  wakt,  he  wayted  diligent, 

With  humble  service  to  her  will  prepard  : 

From  her  fayre  eyes  he  took  commandement. 

And  ever  by  her  lookes  conceived  her  intent. 

From 

THE  SECOND  BOOKE  OF  THE  FAERIE  QUEENE. 

Contayning  the  Legend  of  Sir  Gityon  or  of  Temperaunce. 

CANTO   XII. 
X. 

So  forth  they  rowed  ;  and  that  ferryman 

With  his  stiffe  oares  did  brush  the  sea  so  strong. 

That  the  hoare  waters  from  his  frigot  ran. 

And  the  light  bubles  daunced  all  along. 

Whiles  the  salt  brine  out  of  the  billowes  sprong. 


48  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

At  last,  far  off,  they  many  islandes  spy 
On  every  side  fioting  the  floodes  emong : 
Then  said  the  knight;   "Lo  !  I  the  land  descry  ; 
Therefore,  old  syre,  thy  course  doe  thereunto  apply." 

XI. 

"That  may  not  bee,"  said  then  the  ferryman, 
**  Least  wee  unweeting  hap  to  be  fordonne  : 
For  those  same  islands,  seeming  now  and  than, 
Are  not  firme  land,  nor  any  certein  wonne. 
But  stragling  plots,  which  to  and  fro  doe  ronne 
In  the  wide  waters  :  therefore  are  they  hight 
The  Wandring  Islands  :  therefore  doe  them  shonne ; 
For  they  have  oft  drawne  many  a  wandring  wight 
Into  most  deadly  daunger  and  distressed  plight. 

XII. 

"  Yet  well  they  seeme  to  him,  that  farre  doth  vew, 

Both  faire  and  fruitfull,  and  the  grownd  dispred 

With  grassy  greene  of  delectable  hew ; 

And  the  tall  trees  with  leaves  appareled 

Are  deckt  with  blossoms  dyde  in  white  and  red. 

That  mote  the  passengers  thereto  allure ; 

But  whosoever  once  hath  fastened 

His  foot  thereon,  may  never  it  recure. 

But  wandreth  evermore  uncertein  and  unsure." 


EDMUND  SPENSER.  49 

Fro7n 

THE    FIFTH    BOOKE   OF    THE   FAERIE   QUEENE. 

Coiitayning  the  Legend  of  Artegall  or  of  Justice. 

CANTO   II. 
XXX. 

There  they  beheld  a  mighty  gyant  stand 

Upon  a  rocke,  and  holding  forth  on  hie 

An  huge  great  paire  of  ballaunce  in  his  hand, 

With  which  he  boasted  in  his  surquedrie 

That  all  the  world  he  would  weigh  equallie, 

If  ought  he  had  the  same  to  counterpoys : 

For  want  whereof  he  weighed  vanity, 

And  fild  his  ballaunce  full  of  idle  toys  : 

Yet  was  admired  much  of  fooles,  women,  and  boys. 

XXXI. 

He  sayd  that  he  would  all  the  earth  uptake 

And  all  the  sea,  divided  each  from  either : 

So  would  he  of  the  fire  one  ballaunce  make. 

And  one  of  th'  ayre,  without  or  wind  or  wether  : 

Then  would  he  ballaunce  heaven  and  hell  together, 

And  all  that  did  within  them  all  containe ; 

Of  all  whose  weight  he  would  not  misse  a  fether  : 

And  looke  what  surplus  did  of  each  remaine, 

He  would  to  his  owne  part  restore  the  same  againe. 


so  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

XXXII. 

For  why,  he  sayd,  they  all  unequall  were, 
And  had  encroched  uppon  others  share ; 
Like  as  the  sea  (which  plaine  he  shewed  there) 
Had  worne  the  earth  ;  so  did  the  fire  the  aire  ; 
So  all  the  rest  did  others  parts -empaire : 
And  so  were  realmes  and  nations  run  awry. 
All  which  he  undertooke  for  to  repaire, 
In  sort  as  they  were  formed  aunciently ; 
And  all  things  would  reduce  into  equality. 

XXXIII. 

Therefore  the  vulgar  did  about  him  flocke. 

And  cluster  thicke  unto  his  leasings  vaine ; 

Like  foolish  flies  about  an  hony-crocke ; 

In  hope  by  him  great  benefite  to  gaine, 

And  uncontrolled  freedome  to  obtaine. 

All  which  when  Artegall  did  see  and  heare. 

How  he  misled  the  simple  peoples  traine, 

In  sdeignfull  wize  he  drew  unto  him  neare. 

And  thus  unto  him  spake,  without  regard  or  feare ; 

XXXIV. 

"  Thou,  that  presum'st  to  weigh  the  world  anew. 

And  all  things  to  an  equall  to  restore, 

Instead  of  right  me  seemes  great  wrong  dost  shew, 

And  far  above  thy  forces  pitch  to  sore  : 

For,  ere  thou  limit  what  is  lesse  or  more 

In  every  thing,  thou  oughtest  first  to  know 


EDMUND   SPENSER.  51 

What  was  the  poyse  of  every  part  of  yore : 

And  looke  then,  how  much  it  doth  overflow 

Or  faile  thereof,  so  much  is  more  then  iust  to  trow. 

XXXV. 

"  For  at  the  first  they  ail  created  were 
In  goodly  measure  by  their  Makers  might ; 
And  weighed  out  in  ballaunces  so  nere. 
That  not  a  dram  was  missing  of  their  right : 
The  earth  was  in  the  middle  centre  pight, 
In  which  it  doth  immoveable  abide, 
Hemd  in  with  waters  like  a  wall  in  sight. 
And  they  with  aire,  that  not  a  drop  can  slide : 
Al  which  the  heavens  containe,  and  in  their  courses 
guide. 

xxxvi. 

"  Such  heavenly  iustice  doth  among  them  raine, 

That  every  one  doe  know  their  certaine  bound  ; 

In  which  they  doe  these  many  yeares  remaine, 

And  mongst  them  al  no  change  hath  yet  beene  found : 

But  if  thou  now  shouldst  weigh  them  new  in  pound, 

We  are  not  sure  they  would  so  long  remaine  : 

All  change  is  perillous,  and  all  chaunce  unsound. 

Therefore  leave  off  to  weigh  them  all  againe. 

Till  we  may  be  assur'd  they  shall  their  course  retaine.' 

xxxvii. 

"Thou  foolishe  elfe,"  said  then  the  gyant  wroth, 
"  Seest  not  how  badly  all  things  present  bee, 


52  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  each  estate  quite  out  of  order  goth  ?  ■ 

The  sea  itselfe  doest  thou  not  plainely  see 

Encroch  uppon  the  land  there  under  thee  ? 

And  th'  earth  itselfe  how  daily  its  increast 

By  all  that  dying  to  it  turned  be  ? 

Were  it  not  good  that  wrong  were  then  surceast, 

And  from  the  most  that  some  were  given  to  the  least  ? 

XXXVIII. 

"  Therefore  I  will  throw  downe  these  mountains  hie, 

And  make  them  levell  with  the  lowly  plaine, 

These  towring  rocks,  which  reach  unto  the  skie, 

I  will  thrust  downe  into  the  deepest  maine, 

And,  as  they  were,  them  equalize  againe. 

Tyrants,  that  make  men  subiect  to  their  law, 

I  will  suppresse,  that  they  no  more  may  raine ; 

And  lordings  curbe  that  commons  over-aw ; 

And  all  the  wealth  of  rich  men  to  the  poore  will  draw." 

XXXIX. 

"Of  things  unseene  how  canst  thou  deeme  aright," 

Then  answered  the  righteous  Artegall, 

"  Sith  thou  misdeem'st  so  much  of  things  in  sight .'' 

What  though  the  sea  with  waves  continuall 

Doe  eate  the  earth,  it  is  no  more  at  all ; 

Ne  is  the  earth  the  lesse,  or  loseth  ought : 

For  whatsoever  from  one  place  doth  fall 

Is  with  the  tyde  unto  another  brought : 

For  there  is  nothing  lost,  that  may  be  found  if  sought. 


EDMUND  SPENSER.  53 


XL. 


"  Likewise  the  earth  is  not  augmented  more 

By  all  that  dying  into  it  doe  fade ; 

For  of  the  earth  they  formed  were  of  yore : 

However  gay  their  blossome  or  their  blade 

Doe  flourish  now,  they  into  dust  shall  vade. 

What  wrong  then  is  it  if  that  when  they  die 

They  turne  to  that  whereof  they  first  were  made  ? 

All  in  the  powre  of  their  great  Maker  lie : 

All  creatures  must  obey  the  voice  of  the  Most  Hie. 


XLI. 


"They  live,  they  die,  like  as  He  doth  ordaine, 

Ne  ever  any  asketh  reason  why. 

The  hils  doe  not  the  lowly  dales  disdaine ; 

The  dales  doe  not  the  lofty  hils  envy. 

He  maketh  kings  to  sit  in  soveraiiity ; 

He  maketh  subiects  to  their  powre  obay ; 

He  pulleth  downe,  He  setteth  up  on  hy ; 

He  gives  to  this,  from  that  He  takes  away : 

For  all  we  have  is  His  :  what  He  list  doe,  He  may. 


XLII. 


"Whatever  thing  is  done,  by  Him  is  donne, 

Ne  any  may  His  mighty  will  withstand ; 

Ne  any  may  His  soveraine  power  shonne, 

Ne  loose  that  He  hath  bound  with  stedfast  band  : 

In  vaine  therefore  doest  thou  now  take  in  hand 

To  call  to  count,  or  weigh  His  workes  anew, 


54  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Whose  counsels  depth  thou  canst  not  understand  ; 

Sith  of  things  subiect  to  thy  daily  vew 

Thou  doest  not  know  the  causes  nor  their  courses  dew. 

XLIII. 

"  For  take  thy  ballaunce,  if  thou  be  so  wise, 

And  weigh  the  winde  that  under  heaven  doth  blow ; 

Or  weigh  the  light  that  in  the  east  doth  rise  ; 

Or  weigh  the  thought  that  from  mans  mind  doth  flow : 

But  if  the  weight  of  these  thou  canst  not  show, 

Weigh  but  one  word  which  from  thy  lips  doth  fall  : 

For  how  canst  thou  those  greater  secrets  know, 

That  doest  not  know  the  least  thing  of  them  all  ? 

Ill  can  he  rule  the  great  that  cannot  reach  the  small." 


From 

EPITHALAMION. 

Wake  now,  my  Love,  awake  !  for  it  is  time : 
The  rosy  Morne  long  since  left  Tithons  bed, 
All  ready  to  her  silver  coche  to  clyme, 
And  Phoebus  gins  to  shew  his  glorious  bed. 
Hark  !  how  the  cheerfull  birds  do  chaunt  theyre  laies. 
And  Carroll  of  loves  praise  : 
The  merry  larke  hir  mattins  sings  aloft ; 
The  thrush  replyes  ;  the  mavis  descant  playes  ; 
The  ouzell  shrills  ;  the  ruddock  warbles  soft ; 
So  goodly  all  agree,  with  sweet  consent, 
To  this  dayes  meriment. 


EDMUND  SPENSER.  55 

Ah  !  my  deere  Love,  why  doe  ye  sleepe  thus  long, 

When  meeter  were  that  ye  should  now  awake, 

T'  awayt  the  comming  of  your  ioyous  make. 

And  hearken  to  the  birds  love-learned  song, 

The  deawy  leaves  among  ! 

For  they  of  ioy  and  pleasance  to  you  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  theyr  eccho  ring. 

My  love  is  now  awake  out  of  her  dreame. 

And  her  fayre  eyes,  like  stars  that  dimmed  were 

With  darksome  cloudes  now  shew  theyre  goodly  beams 

More  bright  then  Hesperus  his  head  doth  rere. 

Come  now,  ye  damzels,  daughters  of  delight, 

Helpe  quickly  her  to  dight. 

But  first  come,  ye  fayre  Houres,  which  were  begot, 

In  loves  sweet  paradice,  of  Day  and  Night, 

Which  doe  the  seasons  of  the  year  allot. 

And  al  that  ever  in  this  world  is  fayre 

Do  make  and  still  repayre  : 

And  ye  three  handmayds  of  the  Cyprian  Queene, 

The  which  doe  still  adorn  her  beauties  pride, 

Helpe  to  adorne  my  beautifuUest  bride  : 

And,  as  ye  her  array,  still  throw  betweene 

Some  graces  to  be  scene  ; 

And,  as  ye  use  to  Venus,  to  her  sing. 

The  whiles  the  woods  shal  answer,  and  your  eccho  ring. 

Now  is  my  love  all  ready  forth  to  come ; 

Let  all  the  virgins  therefore  well  awayt. 

And  ye  fresh  boyes,  that  tend  upon  her  groome. 


56  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Prepare  your  selves,  for  he  is  comming  strayt. 

Set  all  your  things  in  seemly  good  aray, 

Fit  for  so  ioyfull  day, 

The  ioyfulst  day  that  ever  sunne  did  see. 

Fair  Sun  !  shew  forth  thy  favourable  ray, 

And  let  thy  lifull  heat  not  fervent  be. 

For  feare  of  burning  her  sunshyny  face, 

Her  beauty  to  disgrace. 

O  Fayrest  Phoebus  !     Father  of  the  Muse  ! 

If  ever  I  did  honour  thee  aright, 

Or  sing  the  thing  that  mote  thy  mind  delight. 

Doe  not  thy  servants  simple  boone  refuse, 

But  let  this  day,  let  this  one  day,  be  mine ; 

Let  all  the  rest  be  thine. 

Then  I  thy  soverayne  prayses  loud  wil  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  shal  answer,  and  theyr  eccho  ring. 

Harke  !  how  the  minstrels  gin  to  shrill  aloud 

Their  merry  musick  that  resounds  from  far. 

The  pipe,  the  tabor,  and  the  trembling  croud, 

That  well  agree  withouten  breach  or  iar. 

But  most  of  all  the  damzels  doe  delite, 

When  they  their  tymbrels  smyte. 

And  thereunto  doe  daunce  and  carrol  sweet. 

That  all  the  sences  they  doe  ravish  quite ; 

The  whyles  the  boyes  run  up  and  downe  the  street, 

Crying  aloud  with  strong  confused  noyce, 

As  if  it  were  one  voyce ; 

"  Hymen,  lo  Hymen,  Hymen,"  they  do  shout ; 

That  even  to  the  heavens  theyr  shouting  shrill 


EDMUND  SPENSER.  57 

Doth  reach,  and  all  the  firmament  cloth  fill  ; 

To  which  the  people,  standing  all  about, 

As  in  approvance,  doe  thereto  applaud, 

And  loud  advaunce  her  laud  ; 

And  evermore  they  "  Hymen,  Hymen,"  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  theyr  eccho  ring. 

Loe !  where  she  comes  along  with  portly  pace, 

Lyke  Phoebe,  from  her  chamber  of  the  East, 

Arysing  forth  to  run  her  mighty  race, 

Clad  all  in  white,  that  seems  a  virgin  best. 

So  well  it  her  beseems,  that  ye  would  weene 

Some  angell  she  had  beene. 

Her  long  loose  yellow  locks  lyke  golden  wyre, 

Sprinckled  with  perle,  and  perling  flowers  atweene, 

Doe  lyke  a  golden  mantle  her  attyre. 

And,  being  crowned  with  a  girland  greene, 

Seeme  lyke  some  mayden  queene. 

Her  modest  eyes,  abashed  to  behold 

So  many  gazers  as  on  her  do  stare. 

Upon  the  lowly  ground  affixed  are, 

Ne  dare  lift  up  her  countenance  too  bold, 

But  blush  to  heare  her  prayses  sung  so  loud, — 

So  farre  from  being  proud. 

Nathless,  doe  ye  still  loud  her  prayses  sing. 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  eccho  ring. 

*  'N  ffi  y^ 

Open  the  temple  gates  unto  my  Love, 
Open  them  wide  that  she  may  enter  in, 


58  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  all  the  postes  adorne  as  doth  behove, 

And  all  the  pillours  deck  with  girlands  trim, 

For  to  receyve  this  saynt  with  honour  dew. 

That  commeth  in  to  you. 

With  trembling  steps,  and  humble  reverence. 

She  commeth  in  before  th'  Almighties  view : 

Of  her,  ye  virgins,  learne  obedience. 

When  so  ye  come  into  those  holy  places, 

To  humble  your  proud  faces. 

Bring  her  up  to  th'  high  altar,  that  she  may 

The  sacred  ceremonies  there  partake. 

The  which  so  endlesse  matrimony  make ; 

And  let  the  roring  organs  loudly  play 

The  praises  of  the  Lord  in  lively  notes ; 

The  whiles,  with  hollow  throats, 

The  choristers  the  ioyous  antheme  sing. 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  their  eccho  ring. 

Behold,  whiles  she  before  the  altar  stands, 

Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speakes 

And  blesseth  her  with  his  two  happy  hands. 

How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheekes, 

And  the  pure  snow  with  goodly  vermill  stayne. 

Like  crimsin  dyde  in  grayne : 

That  even  the  angels,  which  continually 

About  the  sacred  altar  doe  remaine. 

Forget  their  service  and  about  her  fly, 

Ofte  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seems  more  fayre 

The  more  they  on  it  stare. 

But  her  sad  eyes,  still  fastened  on  the  ground. 


EDMUND  SPENSER.  59 

Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty, 

That  suffers  not  one  look  to  glaunce  awry, 

Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsownd. 

Why  blush  ye.  Love,  to  give  to  me  your  hand, 

The  pledge  of  all  our  band  ? 

Sing,  ye  sweet  angels,  Alleluya  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answere,  and  your  eccho  ring. 

Now  al  is  done  ;  bring  home  the  bride  againe ; 
Bring  home  the  triumph  of  our  victory  ; 
Bring  home  with  you  the  glory  of  her  gaine. 
With  ioyance  bring  her  and  with  iollity. 
Never  had  man  more  ioyfull  day  than  this, 
Whom  heaven  would  heape  with  blis. 
Make  feast  therefore  now  all  this  live-long  day  ; 
This  day  for  ever  to  me  holy  is. 

*         *         *         * 

Song,  made  in  lieu  of  many  ornaments 

With  which  my  Love  should  duly  have  been  dect. 

Which  cutting  off  through  hasty  accidents, 

Ye  would  not  stay  your  dew  time  to  expect. 

But  promist  both  to  recompens, 

Be  unto  her  a  goodly  ornament, 

And  for  short  time  an  endlesse  moniment  ! 


60  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

From 

THE  SHEPHEARDES  CALENDER. 

MARCH. 

Willy  e  —  Thomalin. 

Tho.     It  was  upon  a  holiday, 

When  shepheardes  groomes  han  leave  to  playe, 

I  cast  to  goe  a  shooting ; 
Long  wandring  up  and  downe  the  land, 
With  bowe  and  bolts  in  either  hand, 

For  birds  in  bushes  tooting. 
At  length  within  the  yvie  todde, 
(There  shrouded  was  the  little  God,) 

I  heard  a  busie  bustling. 
I  bent  my  bolt  against  the  bush. 
Listening  if  any  thing  did  rushe. 

But  then  heard  no  more  rustling : 
Tho,  peeping  close  into  the  thicke, 
Might  see  the  moving  of  some  quicke, 

Whose  shape  appeared  not ; 
But  were  it  faerie,  feend  or  snake. 
My  courage  earnd  it  to  awake. 

And  manfully  thereat  shotte. 
With  that  sprang  forth  a  naked  swayne, 
With  spotted  wings,  like  Peacocks  trayne, 

And  laughing  lope  to  a  tree ; 
His  gylden  quiver  at  his  backe. 
And  silver  bowe,  which  was  but  slacke, 

Which  lightly  he  bent  at  me. 


EDMUND   SPENSER.  61 

That  seeing,  I  levelde  againe, 

And  shotte  at  him  with  might  and  maine, 

As  thicke  as  it  had  hayled. 
So  long  I  shott  that  al  was  spent ; 
Tho  pumie  stones  I  hastly  hent, 

And  threwe  :  but  nought  availed  : 
He  was  so  wimble  and  so  wight, 
From  bough  to  bough  he  lepped  light, 

And  oft  the  pumies  latched. 
Therewith  affrayd,  I  ranne  away ; 
But  he,  that  earst  seemd  but  to  playe, 

A  shaft  in  earnest  snatched. 
And  hit  me  running  in  the  heele. 
For  then,  I  little  smart  did  feele ; 

But  soone  it  sore  encreased, 
And  now  it  ranckleth  more  and  more, 
And  inwardly  it  festreth  sore, 

Ne  wote  how  to  cease  it. 
Wil.     Thomalin,  I  pittie  thy  plight ; 
Perdie,  with  Love  thou  diddest  fight ; 

I  know  him  by  a  token  : 
For  once  I  heard  my  father  say, 
How  he  him  caught  upon  a  day, 

(Whereof  he  wilbe  wroken,) 
Entangled  in  a  fowling  net. 
Which  he  for  carrion  crowes  had  set 

That  in  our  peere-tree  haunted: 
Tho  sayd  he  was  a  winged  lad, 
But  bowe  and  shafts  as  then  none  had, 

Els  had  he  sore  be  daunted. 


62  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

But  see,  the  welkin  thicks  apace, 
And  stouping  Phoebus  steepes  his  face; 
Yts  time  to  haste  us  homeward. 


WILLYES   EMBLEM. 

To  be  wise,  and  eke  to  love, 
Is  graunted  scarce  to  gods  above. 

THOMALINS   EMBLEME. 

Of  honye  and  of  gaule  in  love  there  is  store ; 
The  honye  is  much,  but  the  gaule  is  more. 

From 

THE    SHEPHEARDES    CALENDER. 

JULY. 

Thomalin  —  Morrell. 
Is  not  thilke  same  a  goteheard  prowde, 

That  sittes  on  yonder  bancke. 
Whose  straying  heard  them  selfe  doth  shrowde 

Emong  the  bushes  rancke  .-• 
Mor.     What  ho,  thou  jollye  shepheardes  swayne. 

Come  up  the  hill  to  me ; 
Better  is  then  the  lowly  playne, 

Als  for  thy  flocke  and  thee. 
Thorn.     Ah,  God  shield,  man,  that  I  should  clime, 

And  learne  to  looke  alofte  ; 
This  reede  is  ryfe,  that  oftentime 

Great  clymbers  fall  unsoft. 


EDMUND   SPENSER.  63 

In  humble  dales  is  footing  fast, 

The  trode  is  not  so  tickle ; 
And  though  one  fall  through  heedless  hast, 

Yet  is  his  misse  not  mickle. 
And  now  the  sonne  hath  reared  up 

His  fyrie-footed  teme. 
Making  his  way  between  the  Cuppe 

And  golden  Diademe  ; 
The  rampant  Lyon  hunts  he  fast, 

With  dogge  of  noysome  breath. 
Whose  baleful  barking  brings  in  hast 

Payne,  plagues,  and  dreery  death. 
Against  his  cruell  scortching  heate. 

Where  hast  thou  coverture  ? 
The  wastefull  hylls  unto  his  threate 

Is  a  playne  overture. 
But,  if  thee  lust  to  holden  chat 

With  seely  shepheardes  swayne, 
Come  downe,  and  learne  the  little  what 

That  Thomalin  can  sayne. 


AMORETTI. 

IX. 


Long-while  I  sought  to  what  I  might  compare 
Those  powrefull  eies  which  lighten  my  dark  spright, 
Yet  find  I  naught  on  earth,  to  which  I  dare 
Resemble  th'  ymage  of  their  goodly  light. 


64  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Not  to  the  sun,  for  they  do  shine  by  night ; 

Nor  to  the  moone,  for  they  are  changed  never; 

Nor  to  the  starres,  for  they  have  purer  sight ; 

Nor  to  the  fire,  for  they  consume  not  ever ; 

Nor  to  the  lightning,  for  they  still  persever ; 

Nor  to  the  diamond,  for  they  are  more  tender ; 

Nor  unto  cristall,  for  naught  may  them  sever ; 

Nor  unto  glass,  such  baseness  mought  offend  her. 
Then  to  the  Maker  selfe  they  likest  be. 
Whose  light  doth  lighten  all  that  here  we  see. 

XV. 

Ye  tradefull  Merchants,  that,  with  weary  toyle, 

Do  seeke  most  pretious  things  to  make  your  gain, 

And  both  the  Indias  of  their  treasure  spoile, 

What  needeth  you  to  seeke  so  farre  in  vaine.-' 

For  loe,  my  Love  doth  in  herselfe  containe 

All  this  worlds  riches  that  may  farre  be  found  : 

If  saphyres,  loe,  her  eies  be  saphyres  plaine ; 

If  rubies,  loe,  hir  lips  be  rubies  sound  ; 

If  pearles,  hir  teeth  be  pearles,  both  pure  and  round, 

If  yvorie,  her  forhead  yvory  weene  ; 

If  gold,  her  locks  are  finest  gold  on  ground ; 

If  silver,  her  faire  hands  are  silver  sheene : 

But  that  which  fairest  is  but  few  behold  :  — 
Her  mind,  adorned  with  vertues  manifold. 


EDMUND  SPENSER.  65 

From 

MOTHER    HUBBERD'S    TALE. 

Most  miserable  man,  whom  wicked  fate 
Hath  brought  to  court,  to  sue  for  hacl-ywist, 
That  few  have  found,  and  manie  one  hath  mist ! 
Full  little  knowest  thou  that  hast  not  tride, 
What  hell  it  is  in  suing  long  to  bide  : 
To  loose  good  dayes,  that  might  be  better  spent ; 
To  wast  long  nights  in  pensive  discontent ; 
To  speed  to  day,  to  be  put  back  to  morrow ; 
To  feed  on  hope,  to  pine  with  feare  and  sorrow ; 
To  have  thy  Princes  grace,  yet  want  her  Peeres ; 
To  have  thy  asking,  yet  waite  manie  yeeres ; 
To  fret  thy  soule  with  crosses  and  with  cares ; 
To  eate  thy  heart  through  comfortlesse  dispaires ; 
To  fawne,  to  crowche,  to  waite,  to  ride,  to  ronne, 
To  spend,  to  give,  to  want,  to  be  undone. 
Unhappie  wight,  borne  to  disastrous  end, 
That  doth  his  life  in  so  long  tendance  spend ! 
Who  ever  leaves  sweete  home,  where  meane  estate 
In  safe  assurance,  without  strife  or  hate, 
Findes  all  things  needfull  for  contentment  meeke, 
And  will  to  court  for  shadows  vaine  to  seeke, 
Or  hope  to  gaine,  himselfe  will  a  daw  trie  : 
That  curse  God  send  unto  mine  enemie ! 


m.     WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE. 

1 564-1616. 

In  the  presence  of  the  third  great  English  poet,  Chaucer 
and  Spenser  are  Uke  courtiers  in  waiting  upon  royalty.  Of 
lofty  rank  themselves,  they  stand  aside  in  the  presence  of 
Shakespeare  with  "  the  bays  which  crowned  him  Poet  first, 
then  Poets'  King."  Chaucer  had  been  dead  one  hundred 
and  sixty-four  years,  and  Spenser  was  a  boy  at  the  Merchant 
Taylors'  School,  when  in  1564  this  "king"  was  born,  not, 
like  them,  in  the  great,  hurrying,  growing  city  of  London, 
but  on  the  quiet  banks  of  the  Avon,  at  Stratford,  the  Street- 
of-the-ford,  in  Warwickshire,  the  great  historic  heart  of  Eng- 
land. When  the  parish  register  was  brought  out  and  some 
scribe  wrote  in  it,  "Baptism,  1564  April  26,  Gulielmus, 
Filius  Johannes  Shakespeare,"  no  one  dreamed  that  he  was 
recording  the  christening  of  a  king. 

This  baby  was  only  the  child  of  a  burgess  of  the  town, 
a  wool  dealer,  prosperous  indeed  and  having  "  landes  and 
tenements  of  good  worth  and  substance,"  but  of  importance 
only  among  his  neighbors.  This  John  Shakespeare,  a  sturdy 
Saxon  yeoman,  had  married  a  gentlewoman,  Mary  Arden, 
—  young,  gently  born  and  bred,  an  heiress,  descendant  of  a 
great  Warwickshire  family,  but  not  herself  of  noble  rank ; 
yet  their  son,  by  the  supreme  right  of  genius,  was  to  reign 
for  centuries  king  over  the  great  realm  of  English  literature. 
While  he  was  a  boy  his  father  prospered  and  became  mayor 
of  Stratford,  or,  in  the  language  of  the  day,  "  Baylyfife  of 
this  Borowghe  of  Stratford  and  Liberties  thereof,"  though 

67 


68  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

he  could  not  write  his  own  name  ;  but  before  very  long 
misfortunes  overtook  him  and  he  lost  his  money  and  his 
offices. 

Meanwhile  his  little  son  had  been  growing  up,  going  to 
Edward  the  Sixth's  "  King's  New  School  of  Stratford-upon- 
Avon  " ;  wandering  about  the  woods  of  Arden  north  of  the 
river,  or  the  green  fields  to  the  south,  and  learning  his  love 
of  nature  from  her  face  ;  playing  pranks  with  the  boys  of 
the  town ;  deer-stealing  in  Charlecote  Park  (for  he  was 
"  much  given  to  all  unluckinesse  in  stealing  venison  and 
rabbits  ");  finding  his  way  across  the  fields  to  the  hamlet  of 
Shottery  and  there  marrying  Anne  Hathaway  when  he  was 
only  eighteen  years  old  ;  studying  perhaps  for  a  time  in  a 
lawyer's  office,  and  at  length,  a  few  years  later,  leaving  his 
wife  and  three  little  children,  his  father  and  mother  and 
friends,  and  going  up  to  seek  his  fortune  in  the  city  of 
London.  Some  people  say  he  went  away  to  escape  punish- 
ment for  the  deer-stealing  ;  others  that  the  deer-stealing  and 
the  school-going  and  the  law-studying  and  the  stories  of  his 
boyhood  are  legends,  and  that  we  know  only  that  he  went 
away,  probably  to  earn  money  for  the  care  of  his  family  and 
to  help  his  father.  At  all  events  he  did  go,  he  did  gain 
a  fortune,  and  with  it  "  honor,  love,  obedience,  troops  of 
friends." 

In  six  years  the  Warwickshire  boy  of  twenty-two  who 
came  up  to  London  penniless  was  a  prosperous  and  even  a 
famous  man. 

In  eleven  years  he  bought  "New  Place,"  the  largest  and 
finest  house  in  the  town  of  Stratford,  for  his  home.  In 
sixteen  years  he  bought  more  lands  and  tithes  in  Stratford. 
In  twenty-five  years  he  came  home  to  live  there,  and  there 
in  thirty  years,  probably  on  his  birthday,  certainly  on  the 
23d   of   April,  16 1 6,  he   died.     There   he  was  buried,  and 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  69 

there,  to-day,  any  pilgrim  who  goes  to  this  great  shrine  will 
see  in  the  chancel  of  the  church,  sunk  into  the  wall,  the  bust 
made  by  Gerard  Johnson,  a  few  years  after  Shakespeare's 
death,  with  the  inscription  : 

IVDICIO    PYLIVM,  GENIO    SOCRATEM,  ARTE    MARONEM, 
TERRA    TEGIT,  POPULUS    MAERET,  OLYMPUS    HABET. 

Stay  passenger,  why  goest  thov  by  so  fast  ? 
Read  if  thov  canst,  whome  enviovs  death  hath  plast 
Within  this  Monvment ;  Shakespeare  with  whome 
Qvicke  natvre  dide,  whose  name  doth  decke  ^  Tombe 
Far  more  than  cost,  sith  all  y  he  hath  writt 
Leaves  living  art  bvt  page  to  serve  his  witt 

Obiit  Ano  Do'  1616 
^tatis  53.  Die  23.  Ap. 

A  flat  stone  in  the  floor,  a  little  away  from  the  wall,  covers 
the  grave,  and  has  these  famous  lines,  which  have  kept  it 
untouched  for  nearly  three  centuries  : 

GOOD    FREND    FOR    lESUS    SAKE    FORBEARE 
TO    DIGG    THE    DVST    ENCLOASED    HEARE, 
BLESTE    BE  ?  MAN  v  SPARES    THES    STONES 


Y 


AND    CVRST    BE    HE  1  MOVES    MY    BONES, 


But  how  did  the  unknown  boy  from  Stratford  become 
what  Victor  Hugo  calls  "  the  chief  glory  of  England "  ? 
When  he  came  up  to  London  it  was  not  to  tind,  like  Chaucer 
and  Spenser,  a  welcome  at  court,  and  offices  and  honors  to 
meet  him.  He  came  to  join  a  company  of  actors,  who  at 
that  time  were  thought  of  little  account,  and  who  have  been 
called,  among  other  not  very  flattering  names,  "  The  Cater- 
pillars of  the  Commonwealth."  These  actors  had  just  begun 
to  have  a  theater  of  their  own  in  London,  which,  rude  as  it 


70  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

was,  open  to  the  sky  and  with  none  of  the  stage  dressings 
that  we  have  now,  was  a  great  improvement  on  their  old  plan 
of  strolling  about  the  country  under  the  protection  of  some 
nobleman,  playing  in  inn-yards  on  scaffolds  built  in  the 
open  air. 

At  first,  so  the  story  goes,  Shakespeare  only  held  the 
horses  outside  the  door  for  the  gentlemen  who  came  "  riding 
into  the  fieldes,  plays  to  behold,"  but  soon  he  began  to  act 
for  himself,  probably  in  some  very  humble  way.  Soon,  again, 
he  was  not  only  acting,  but  rewriting  old  plays  to  be  acted 
by  the  company.  Then  at  last  he  began  to  write  his  own 
wonderful  plays,  and  England  had  found  her  great  dramatic 
poet. 

For  four  hundred  years  before  Shakespeare  there  had 
been  plays  in  England,  —  stories  from  the  Bible  called  "  Mys- 
teries" or  "  Miracle  Plays,"  acted  upon  platforms  drawn  about 
the  streets;  allegories  called  "Moralities,"  in  which  the  vir- 
tues and  vices,  like  Gluttony,  Good-Deeds,  Temperance,  etc., 
took  the  place  of  real  people  ;  and  then  interludes,  —  short 
farces,  meant  to  be  played  in  the  intervals  of  a  banquet. 
But  suddenly,  like  a  splendid  flower  upon  a  rough  stem,  what 
is  called  the  "  Elizabethan  Drama  "  blossomed  out,  and  the 
English  stage  became  glorious  and  famous. 

Ben  Jonson,  Marlowe,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Massinger, 
Ford,  and  Webster,  and  a  score  of  others  were  soon  busily  at 
work  ;  but  the  star  of  Shakespeare's  genius  shines  high  above 
them  all.  The  young  Earl  of  Southampton  came  to  know 
and  admire  him,  and  Shakespeare  dedicated  his  "Venus 
and  Adonis,"  which  he  called  the  first  heir  of  his  invention, 
to  him.  So,  with  good  friends  about  him  ;  soon  owning 
shares  in  the  Black  Friars  Theater  and  the  Globe  Theater 
and  growing  to  be  rich  and  prosperous  ;  seeing  his  plays 
performed  before  Queen  Elizabeth,  with  Burbadge,  the  great 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  71 

actor,  in  their  leading  parts,  while  he  himself  played  in  some 
of  the  minor  ones  ;  taking  part  in  the  triumphal  procession 
of  King  James  the  First  from  London  Tower  to  Westminster; 
going  down  often  to  his  home  at  Stratford  ;  writing,  acting, 
working,  he  spent  the  twenty-five  brilliant,  stirring  years  of 
his  London  life,  and  then,  in  ease  and  honor,  went  back  for 
five  quiet  yet  still  busy  years  at  Stratford,  with  his  wife  and 
daughters  and  sons-in-law,  and  his  one  little  grandchild, 
Elizabeth. 

In  the  thirty  years  from  1586  to  161 6  Shakespeare  wrote 
three  poems,  "Venus  and  Adonis,"  "  Lucrece,"  and  the 
"Passionate  Pilgrim,"  one  hundred  and  fifty-four  sonnets, 
and  thirty-seven  dramas,  and  these  are  some  of  the  titles 
which  he  gained : 

From  Spenser, —  "The  man  whom  nature  self  had  made  to 

mock  herself  and  truth  to  imitate." 
From  Ben  Jonson,  — "  Soul  of  the  age,  the  applause,  delight, 
the  wonder  of  our  stage," 

"  Sweet  swan  of  Avon," 

"Thou  starre  of  poets," 

"  Not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time." 
From  Otway,  —  "The  happiest  poet  of  his  time,  and  best." 
From  Milton,  —  "  Dear  son  of  Memory,  great  Heir  of  Fame," 

"  Sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child." 
From  Dryden,  —  "The  divine  Shakespeare." 
From  Lamb,  —  "Our  sweetest  Shakespeare." 
From  Coleridge, ^ — "The  thousand-souled  Shakespeare." 
From   Victor    Hugo, — ^ "  Shakespeare,    the    chief   glory   of 
England." 

Douglas  Jerrold,  the  witty  Englishman,  says  about  critics 
of  Shakespeare  :  "  They  are  like  people  who  write  with 
diamonds   upon  glass,   and   only  obscure    the   light,"   and 


72  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

certainly,  although  many  hundreds  of  books  have  been 
written  on  Shakespeare,  nothing  can  teach  us  about  him 
as  he  does  himself.  We  must  read  the  great  tragedies 
themselves, —  "  Hamlet,"  "Macbeth,"  "Othello,"  "King 
Lear";  the  great  histories  ^ — ^"King  John,"  "Henry  IV.," 
"  Henry  V.,"  "  King  Richard  HI.,"  and  the  third  part  of 
"  King  Henry  VI.,"  thought  to  be  his  first  play ;  the  great 
comedies,  —  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice,"  "  As  You  Like  It," 
"Twelfth  Night,"  "A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  and 
"The  Tempest,"  said  to  be  his  last  play.  One  book,  how- 
ever, all  young  people  ought  to  own,  and  that  is  Charles  and 
Mary  Lamb's  "Tales  from  Shakespeare."  It  is  a  classic  in 
itself,  and  lets  us  into  the  secret  of  the  plots  and  tells  us  the 
story  of  some  of  the  plays  in  such  a  charming  way  as  to 
make  us  only  more  anxious  to  read  them,  and  to  realize 
with  Lamb  his  wish  that  "  the  plays  may  prove  enrichers 
of  the  fancy;  strengtheners  of  virtue;  a  withdrawing  from 
all  selfish  and  mercenary  thoughts ;  a  lesson  of  all  sweet 
and  honorable  thoughts  and  actions  to  teach  us  courtesy, 
benignity,  generosity,  humanity,  for  of  examples  teaching 
these  virtues  Shakespeare's  pages  are  full." 


so  N  N  ETS, 


XXIX. 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 

I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  Heaven  with  my  bootless  cries. 

And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 

Featur'd  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possess'd. 
Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope, 

With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 

Haply  I  think  on  thee,  —  and  then  my  state 
(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 

From  sullen  earth)  sings  hymns  at  Heaven's  gate  : 
For  thy  sweet  love  remember'd,  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 

XXX. 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  times'  waste; 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unus'd  to  flow, 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 

n 


74  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since-cancell'd  woe, 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight. 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 

The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend. 

All  losses  are  restor'd,  and  sorrows  end. 

LII. 

So  am  I  as  the  rich,  whose  blessed  key 

Can  bring  him  to  his  sweet  up-locked  treasure, 
The  which  he  will  not  every  hour  survey. 

For  blunting  the  fine  point  of  seldom  pleasure. 
Therefore  are  feasts  so  solemn  and  so  rare, 

Since  seldom  coming,  in  the  long  year  set. 
Like  stones  of  worth  they  thinly  placed  are, 

Or  captain  jewels  in  the  carcanet. 
So  is  the  time  that  keeps  you,  as  my  chest. 

Or  as  the  wardrobe,  which  the  robe  doth  hide. 
To  make  some  special  instant  special-blest. 

By  new  unfolding  his  imprison'd  pride. 
Blessed  are  you,  whose  worthiness  gives  scope, 
Being  had,  to  triumph,  being  lack'd,  to  hope. 

LXXIII. 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold. 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few  do  hang 

Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  75 

In  me  thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  day 

As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west ; 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 

Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 

That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie ; 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 

Consum'd  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by. 
This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more  strong. 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 

cxvi. 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds; 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove: 

0  no!  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark, 

That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never  shaken ; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark. 

Whose  worth 's   unknown,   although   his   height    be 
taken. 
Love  's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come  ; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks. 

But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  prov'd, 

1  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  lov'd. 


SONGS 


From 
CYMBELINE. 

Song  to  Imogen. 

Hark!  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chalic'd  flowers  that  lies  ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin  to  ope  their  golden  eyes  ; 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  is  —  my  lady  sweet,  arise ; 
Arise,  arise. 

Song  of  Arviragus  and  Guiderius. 

Gui.    Fear  no  more  the  heat  of  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  ; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages : 
Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must. 
As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Arv.    Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great. 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke, 
Care  no  more  to  clothe,  and  eat ; 
76 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  77 

To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak  : 
The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Gtd.    Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash ; 
Aru.        Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone  : 
Gui.    Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash  : 
Arv.        Thou  hast  finish'd  joy  and  moan  : 
BotJi.  All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 
Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

Old.    No  exorciser  harm  thee  ! 
Arv.    Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee ! 
Old.    Ghost  unlaid  forbear  thee  ! 
Arv.    Nothing  ill  come  near  thee  ! 
BotJi.  Quiet  consummation  have  : 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave ! 


From 
A   MIDSUMMER   NIGHT'S    DREAM. 

Fairy's  Song. 

Over  hill,  over  dale. 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  briar, 
Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 
I  do  wander  every  where. 
Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere; 
And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green : 


78  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be ; 

In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see; 

Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favours, 

In  those  freckles  live  their  savours  : 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here. 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 
Farewell,  thou  lob  of  spirits,  I  '11  be  gone ; 
Our  queen  and  all  her  elves  come  here  anon. 

Fairies'  Song. 


You  spotted  snakes,  with  double  tongue, 
Thorny  hedge-hogs,  be  not  seen ; 

Newts,  and  blind-worms,  do  no  wrong : 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen. 

Chorus. 

Philomel,  with  melody. 
Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby ; 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby  ;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby  ; 
Never  harm,  nor  spell  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh ; 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby. 

II. 

Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here ; 

Hence,  you  long-legg'd  spinners,  hence ; 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near ; 

Worm,  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  79 

Chorus. 

Philomel,  with  melody, 
Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby ; 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby ;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby ; 
Never  harm,  nor  spell  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh ; 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby. 


From 
A   WINTER'S   TALE. 

Songs  of  Autolycus. 

I. 

Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  way, 
And  merrily  hent  the  stile-a : 

A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 
Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a. 

II. 

Lawn,  as  white  as  driven  snow ; 
Cyprus,  black  as  e'er  was  crow ; 
Gloves,  as  sweet  as  damask  roses ; 
Masks  for  faces,  and  for  noses ; 
Bugle  bracelet,  necklace-amber ; 
Perfume  for  a  lady's  chamber ; 
Golden  quoifs,  and  stomachers, 
For  my  lads  to  give  their  dears ; 


80  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Pins,  and  poking  sticks  of  steel, 

What  maids  lack  from  head  to  heel ; 

Come,  buy  of  me,  come  ;  come  buy,  come  buy, 

Buy,  lads,  or  else  your  lasses  cry  :  come,  buy. 

III. 

Will  you  buy  any  tape. 

Or  lace  for  your  cape. 
My  dainty  duck,  my  dear-a .? 

Any  silk,  any  thread, 
.   Any  toys  for  your  head. 
Of  the  new'st,  and  fin'st,  fin'st,  wear-a.^* 

Come  to  the  pedlar ; 

Money 's  a  medler. 
That  doth  utter  all  men's  ware-a. 


From 
TWELFTH   NIGHT. 

Clown's  Song, 

Come  away,  come  away,  death, 
And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid ; 

Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath  ; 
I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

O  prepare  it ; 

My  part  of  death  no  one  so  true 

Did  share  it. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  81 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet, 
On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown ; 

Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 
My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown. 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  O,  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there. 


From 
HAMLET. 

Songs  of  Ophelia. 


How  should  I  your  true  love  know 

From  another  one .-' 
By  his  cockle  hat  and  staff, 

And  his  sandal  shoon. 

He  is  dead  and  gone,  lady, 
He  is  dead  and  gone ; 

At  his  head  a  grass-green  turf, 
At  his  heels  a  stone. 

II. 

And  will  he  not  come  again } 
And  will  he  not  come  again  t 
No,  no,  he  is  dead. 


82  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Go  to  thy  death-bed, 
He  never  will  come  again. 

His  beard  was  as  white  as  snow, 
All  flaxen  was  his  poll : 
He  is  gone,  he  is  gone. 
And  we  cast  away  moan ; 
Gramercy  on  his  soul ! 


Frotn 
HENRY   VIII. 

Song. 

Orpheus  with  his  lute  made  trees, 
And  <-he  mountain-tops,  that  freeze, 

Bow  themselves,  when  he  did  sins: 
To  his  music,  plants  and  flowers 
Ever  sprung  ;  as  sun,  and  showers. 
There  had  made  a  lasting  spring. 

Every  thing  that  heard  him -play, 
Even  the  billows  of  the  sea, 

Hung  their  heads,  and  then  lay  by. 
In  sweet  music  is  such  art : 
Killing  care,  and  grief  of  heart, 

Fall  asleep,  or,  hearing,  die. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  83 

From 
THE   TEMPEST. 

Songs  of  Ariel. 
I. 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands  : 
Court'sied  when  you  have  and  kiss'd 

(The  wild  waves  whist,) 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there ; 
And  sweet  sprites,  the  burthen  bear, 

Hark,  hark ! 

II. 
Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies, 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made, 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade. 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 

[Burthen,  ding-dong.] 
Hark  !  now  I  hear  them,  —  ding-dong,  bell. 

III. 
Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I ; 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  : 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly. 
After  summer,  merrily  : 


8+  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now. 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

Wedding  Song. 

Jimo. 
Honour,  riches,  marriage-blessing, 
Long  continuance,  and  increasing, 
Hourly  joys  be  still  upon  you  ! 
Juno  sings  her  blessings  on  you. 

Ceres. 
Earth's  increase,  foison  plenty, 
Barns  and  garners  never  empty  ; 
Vines,  with  clust'ring  bunches  growing  ; 
Plants,  with  goodly  burthen  bowing ; 
Spring  come  to  you,  at  the  farthest. 
In  the  very  end  of  harvest  ! 
Scarcity,  and  want,  shall  shun  you ; 
Ceres'  blessing  so  is  on  you. 


Frofn 

TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF   VERONA. 

Song. 

Who  is  Silvia }  what  is  she, 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her  } 

Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she, 

The  heavens  such  grace  did  lend  her, 

That  she  might  admired  be. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  85 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair  ? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness  : 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness  ; 
And,  being  help'd,  inhabits  there. 


Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing, 
That  Silvia  is  excelling  : 

She  excels  each  mortal  thing. 
Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling 

To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 


Frofn 
AS    YOU    LIKE   IT. 

Songs  of  Amiens. 
I. 
Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither ; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

II. 
Who  doth  ambition  shun. 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 


86  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither ; 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Song. 
I. 
Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen. 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh,  ho  !  sing  heigh,  ho  !  unto  the  green  holly  : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly ! 
Then,  heigh,  ho,  the  holly  ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

II. 
Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot  : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 
As  friend  remembered  not. 
Heigh,  ho  !  sing  heigh,  ho  !  unto  the  green  holly  : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly ! 
Then,  heigh,  ho,  the  holly ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 


DRAMAS 


MACBETH. 

From 
Act  I.,  Scene  vii. 

Macbeth. 

If  it  were  done,  when  't  is  done,  then  't  were  well 
It  were  done  quickly  :  if  the  assassination 
Could  trammel  up  the  consequence,  and  catch, 
With  his  surcease,  success  ;  that  but  this  blow 
Might  be  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  here, 
But  here,  upon  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time. 
We'd  jump  the  life  to  come.  —  But,  in  these  cases, 
We  still  have  judgment  here;  that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which,  being  taught,  return 
To  plague  the  inventor  :  This  even-handed  justice 
Commends  the  ingredients  of  our  poison'd  chalice 
To  our  own  lips.      He  's  here  in  double  trust : 
First,  as  I  am  his  kinsman  and  his  subject. 
Strong  both  against  the  deed  ;  then,  as  his  host. 
Who  should  against  his  murderer  shut  the  door. 
Not  bear  the  knife  myself.     Besides,  this  Duncan 
Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 
So  clear  in  his  great  office,  that  his  virtues 

87 


88  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Will  plead  like  angels,  trumpet-tongued,  against 
The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking-off : 
And  pity,  like  a  naked  new-born  babe. 
Striding  the  blast,  or  Heaven's  cherubim,  horsed 
Upon  the  sightless  couriers  of  the  air, 
Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye. 
That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind.  —  I  have  no  spur 
To  prick  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 
Vaulting  ambition,  which  o'erleaps  itself, 
And  falls  on  the  other.  —  {Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

How  now,  what  news? 

Front 
Act  II.,   Scene  i, 
Macbeth  —  Servant. 

Macb.     Go,  bid  thy  mistress,  when  my  drink  is  ready. 
She  strike  upon  the  bell.     Get  thee  to  bed.  — 

[Exit  Servant. 
Is  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  me. 

The  handle  toward  my  hand.?      Come  let  me   clutch 

thee  :  — 

I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still. 

Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 

To  feeling,  as  to  sight }  or  art  thou  but 

A  dagger  of  the  mind ;  a  false  creation, 

Proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed  brain } 

I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  palpable 

As  this  which  now  I  draw. 

Thou  marshall'st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going; 

And  such  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  89 

Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fools  o'  the  other  senses, 

Or  else  worth  all  the  rest :  I  see  thee  still ; 

And  on  thy  blade,  and  dudgeon,  gouts  of  blood, 

Which  was  not  so  before.  —  There  's  no  such  thine: : 

It  is  the  bloody  business  which  informs 

Thus  to  mine  eyes.  —  Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 

Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 

The  curtain'd  sleep ;  witchcraft  celebrates 

Pale  Hecate's  offerings  ;  and  wither'd  murther, 

Alarum'd  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf. 

Whose  howl  's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy  pace, 

With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,  towards  his  design 

Moves  like  a  ghost.  — Thou  sure  and  firm  set  earth, 

Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 

The  very  stones  prate  of  my  whereabout. 

And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time, 

Which  now  suits  with  it.  —  Whiles  I  threat,  he  lives  ; 

Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cold  breath  gives. 

{A  bell  rings.) 
I  go,  and  it  is  done ;  the  bell  invites  me. 

Hear  it  not,  Duncan  ;  for  it  is  a  knell 

That  summons  thee  to  heaven  or  to  hell.  \Exit. 

Frotn 

Act  v.,  Scene  v. 

Macbeth  —  Seyton. 

Macb.     Hang  out  our  banners  on  the  outer  walls ; 
The  cry  is  still,  TJiey  come:  Our  castle's  strength 
Will  laugh  a  siege  to  scorn  :  here  let  them  lie, 


90  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Till  famine,  and  the  ague,  eat  them  up  : 
Were  they  not  forced  with  those  that  should  be  ours. 
We  might  have  met  them  dareful,  beard  to  beard. 
And  beat  them  backward  home.     What  is  that  noise  ? 

{A  cry  ivithin  of  zvome7i.) 

Sey.     It  is  the  cry  of  women,  my  good  lord. 

Macb.     I  have  almost  forgot  the  taste  of  fears  : 
The  time  has  been,  my  senses  would  have  cool'd 
To  hear  a  night-shriek ;  and  my  fell  of  hair 
Would  at  a  dismal  treatise  rouse,  and  stir 
As  life  were  in  't  :  I  have  supp'd  full  with  horrors  ; 
Direness,  familiar  to  my  slaught'rous  thoughts. 
Cannot  once  start  me.  —  Wherefore  was  that  cry .'' 

Sey.     The  queen,  my  lord,  is  dead. 

Macb.     She  should  have  died  hereafter  ; 
There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word.  — 
To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow. 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day. 
To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time  ; 
And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty  death.     Out,  out,  brief  candle  ! 
Life  's  but  a  walking  shadow ;  a  poor  player. 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage. 
And  then  is  heard  no  more :  it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing.  — 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  9] 


HAMLET. 

From 

Act  I.,  Scene  hi. 

Polonms  —  Laertes. 

Pol.     Yet  here,  Laertes?  aboard,  aboard,  for  shame; 
The  wind  sits  in  the  shoulder  of  your  sail, 
And  you  are  staid  for  :  There,  —  my  blessing  with  you  : 

{Laymg  his  hand  on  Laertes  head.) 
And  these  few  precepts  in  thy  memory 
See  thou  character.     Give  thy  thoughts  no  tongue, 
Nor  any  unproportioned  thought  his  act. 
Be  thou  familiar,  but  by  no  means  vulgar. 
The  friends  thou  hast,  and  their  adoption  tried, 
Grapple  them  to  thy  soul  with  hoops  of  steel ; 
But  do  not  dull  thy  palm  with  entertainment 
Of  each  new-hatch'd,  unfledg'd  comrade.     Beware 
Of  entrance  to  a  quarrel ;  but,  being  in, 
Bear  't,  that  the  opposed  may  beware  of  thee. 
Give  every  man  thine  ear,  but  few  thy  voice : 
Take  each  man's  censure,  but  reserve  thy  judgment. 
Costly  thy  habit  as  thy  purse  can  buy. 
But  not  express'd  in  fancy ;  rich,  not  gaudy  : 
For  the  apparel  oft  proclaims  the  man ; 
And  they  in  France,  of  the  best  rank  and  station, 
Are  most  select  and  generous,  chief  in  that. 
Neither  a  borrower,  nor  a  lender  be : 
For  loan  oft  loses  both  itself  and  friend ; 


92  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  borrowing  dulls  the  edge  of  husbandry. 
This  above  all,  —  To  thine  own  self  be  true ; 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day. 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man. 
Farewell  ;  my  blessing  season  this  in  thee ! 


From 

Act  I.,  Scene  iv. 

Hamlet.,  Horatio,  and  Marc ellus. 

The  Platform. 

Ham.     The  air  bites  shrewdly  ;  it  is  very  cold. 

Hor.     It  is  a  nipping  and  an  eager  air. 

Ham.     What  hour  now  } 

Hor.     I  think,  it  lacks  of  twelve. 

Mar.     No,  it  is  struck. 

Hor.     Indeed  !  I  heard  it  not ;    it  then  draws  near 
the  season, 
Wherein  the  spirit  held  his  wont  to  walk. 

(A  flourish  of  trumpets  and  ordnance  shot  off  within.) 
What  does  this  mean,  my  lord.? 

Ham.  The  king  doth  wake  to-night,  and  takes  his  rouse. 
Keeps  wassels,  and  the  swaggering  up-spring  reels ; 
And,  as  he  drains  his  draughts  of  Rhenish  down, 
The  kettle-drum  and  trumpet  thus  bray  out 
The  triumph  of  his  pledge. 

Hor.     Is  it  a  custom.-' 

Ham.     Ay,  marry,  is  't : 
And  to  my  mind,  —  though  I  am  native  here, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  93 

And  to  the  manner  born,  —  it  is  a  custom 

More  honour'd  in  the  breach,  than  the  observance. 

This  heavy-headed  revel,  east  and  west, 

Make  us  traduc'd,  and  tax'd  of  other  nations  : 

They  clepe  us  drunkards,  and  with  swinish  phrase 

Soil  our  addition ;  and,  indeed  it  takes 

From  our  achievements,  though  perform'd  at  height. 

The  pith  and  marrow  of  our  attribute. 

So,  oft  it  chances  in  particular  men, 

That,  for  some  vicious  mole  of  nature  in  them. 

As  in  their  birth,  (wherein  they  are  not  guilty. 

Since  nature  cannot  choose  his  origin,) 

By  the  o'ergrowth  of  some  complexion. 

Oft  breaking  down  the  pales  and  forts  of  reason ; 

Or  by  some  habit,  that  too  much  o'er-leavens 

The  form  of  plausive  manners  ;  —  that  these  men, 

Carrying,  I  say,  the  stamp  of  one  defect ; 

Being  nature's  livery,  or  fortune's  star,  — 

Their  virtues  else  (be  they  as  pure  as  grace, 

As  infinite  as  man  may  undergo,) 

Shall  in  the  general  censure  take  corruption 

From  that  particular  fault  :  The  dram  of  ill 

Doth  all  the  noble  substance  often  dout. 

To  his  own  scandal. 

Enter  Ghost. 

Hor.     Look,  my  lord,  it  comes  ! 

Ham.     Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us  !  — 
Be  thou  a  spirit  of  health,  or  goblin  damn'd. 
Bring  with  thee  airs  from  heaven,  or  blasts  from  hell, 


94  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Be  thy  intents  wicked,  or  charitable, 

Thou  com'st  in  such  a  questionable  shape, 

That  I  will  speak  to  thee ;  I  '11  call  thee,  Hamlet, 

King,  father,  royal  Dane  :  O,  answer  me : 

Let  me  not  burst  in  ignorance  !  but  tell, 

Why  thy  canoniz'd  bones,  hearsed  in  death. 

Have  burst  their  cerements  !  why  the  sepulchre, 

Wherein  we  saw  thee  quietly  in-urn'd, 

Hath  ope'd  his  ponderous  and  marble  jaws. 

To  cast  thee  up  again !     What  may  this  mean. 

That  thou,  dead  corse,  again  in  complete  steel, 

Revisit'st  thus  the  glimpses  of  the  moon, 

Making  night  hideous  ;  and  we  fools  of  nature. 

So  horridly  to  shake  our  disposition, 

With  thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of  our  souls? 

Say,  why  is  this  ?  wherefore  ?  what  should  we  do  ? 

Hor.     It  beckons  you  to  go  away  with  it. 
As  if  it  some  impartment  did  desire 
To  you  alone. 

Mar.     Look,  with  what  courteous  action 
It  waves  you  to  a  more  removed  ground  : 
But  do  not  go  with  it. 

Hor.     No,  by  no  means. 

Ham.     It  will  not  speak  ;  then  I  will  follow  it. 

Hor.     Do  not,  my  lord. 

Ham.     Why,  what  should  be  the  fear.? 
I  do  not  set  my  life  at  a  pin's  fee : 
And,  for  my  soul,  what  can  it  do  to  that, 
Being  a  thing  immortal  as  itself .'' 
It  waves  me  forth  again  ;  —  I  '11  follow  it. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  95 

Hor.     What,  if  it  tempt  you  toward  the  flood,  my  lord, 
Or  to  the  dreadful  summit  of  the  cliff. 
That  beetles  o'er  his  base  into  the  sea  : 
And  there  assume  some  other  horrible  form, 
Which  might  deprive  your  sovereignty  of  reason, 
And  draw  you  into  madness?  think  of  it  : 
The  very  place  puts  toys  of  desperation. 
Without  more  motive,  into  every  brain. 
That  looks  so  many  fathoms  to  the  sea, 
And  hears  its  roar  beneath. 

Hmn.     It  wafts  me  still  : 
Go  on,  I  '11  follow  thee. 

Mar.     "You  shall  not  go,  my  lord. 

Ham.     Hold  off  your  hand. 

Hor.     Be  rul'd,  you  shall  not  go. 

Havi.      My  fate  cries  out. 
And  makes  each  petty  artery  in  this  body 
As  hardy  as  the  Nemean  lion's  nerve.  — 

{Ghost  beckons.) 
Still  am  I  call'd  ;  —  unhand  me,  gentlemen;  — 

(Breaking from  them}) 
By  heaven,  I  '11  make  a  ghost  of  him  that  lets  me  :  — 
I  say,  away  :  —  Go  on,  I  'II  follow  thee. 

\_Exennt  Ghost  and  Hamlet. 

Hor.     He  waxes  desperate  with  imagination. 

Mar.      Let 's  follow  ;  't  is  not  fit  thus  to  obey  him. 

Hor.     Have  after  :  —  To  what  issue  will  this  come.? 

Mar.     Something  is  rotten  in  the  state  of  Denmark. 

Hor.      Heaven  will  direct  it. 

Mar.      Nay,  let  's  follow  him.  [Exeimt. 


96  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

From 
Act  III.,   Scene  i. 

Hamlet. 

Hani.     To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question: 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune. 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And,  by  opposing,  end  them  ? —  To  die, —  to  sleep, — 
No  more ;  —  and,  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ach,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to,  —  'tis  a  consummation   ' 
Devoutly  to  be  wish'd.     To  die,  —  to  sleep; — 
To  sleep!   perchance  to  dream  ; — ay,  there's  the  rub; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come. 
When  we  have  shufEed  off  this  mortal  coil, 
Must  give  us  pause:  there's  the  respect. 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life: 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely. 
The  pangs  of  dispriz'd  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes. 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin  ?  who  would  fardels  bear, 
To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life; 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death. 
The  undiscover'd  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns,  puzzles  the  will; 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  97 

And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have, 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of  ? 
Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all ; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought; 
And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment, 
With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn  awry. 
And  lose  the  name  of  action.  —  Soft  you,  now! 
The  fair  Ophelia:  —  Nymph,  in  thy  orisons 
Be  all  my  sins  remember'd. 

Frotn 
Act  III.,  Scene  ii. 

Enter  Hamlet  and  Certain  Players. 

Ham.  Speak  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  pro- 
nounced it  to  you,  trippingly  on  the  tongue :  but  if  you 
mouth  it,  as  many  of  your  players  do,  I  had  as  lief 
the  town-crier  had  spoke  my  lines.  Nor  do  not  saw 
the  air  too  much,  your  hand  thus  ;  but  use  all  gently: 
for  in  the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and  (as  I  may  say) 
the  whirlwind  of  passion,  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a 
temperance,  that  may  give  it  smoothness.  O,  it  offends 
me  to  the  soul,  to  hear  a  robustious  periwig-pated  fellow 
tear  a  passion  to  tatters,  to  very  rags,  to  split  the  ears 
of  the  groundlings  ;  who,  for  the  most  part,  are  capable 
of  nothing  but  inexplicable  dumb  shows,  and  noise:  I 
could  have  such  a  fellow  whipped  for  o'er-doing  Terma- 
gant ;  it  out-herods  Herod  :  Pray  you,  avoid  it. 

/  Play.     I  warrant  your  honour. 


98  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Ham.  Be  not  too  tame  neither,  but  let  your  own 
discretion  be  your  tutor:  suit  the  action  to  the  word, 
the  word  to  the  action ;  with  this  special  observance, 
that  you  o'er-step  not  the  modesty  of  nature:  for  any- 
thing so  overdone  is  from  the  purpose  of  playing, 
whose  end,  both  at  the  first,  and  now,  was,  and  is,  to 
hold,  as  't  were,  the  mirror  up  to  nature ;  to  shew  vir- 
tue her  own  feature,  scorn  her  own  image,  and  the  very 
age  and  body  of  the  time,  his  form  and  pressure.  Now 
this,  overdone,  or  come  tardy  off,  though  it  make  the 
unskilful  laugh,  cannot  but  make  the  judicious  grieve ; 
the  censure  of  the  which  one,  must,  in  your  allow- 
ance, o'erweigh  a  whole  theatre  of  others.  O,  there 
be  players,  that  I  have  seen  play, — and  heard  others 
praise,  and  that  highly,  —  not  to  speak  it  profanely, 
that,  neither  having  the  accent  of  christians,  nor  the 
gait  of  christian,  pagan,  nor  man,  have  so  strutted,  and 
bellowed,  that  I  have  thought  some  of  Nature's  jour- 
neymen had  made  men,  and  not  made  them  well,  they 
imitated  humanity  so  abominably. 

/  Play.  I  hope,  we  have  reformed  that  indifferently 
with  us,  sir. 

Ham.  O,  reform  it  altogether.  And  let  those  that 
play  your  clowns,  speak  no  more  than  is  set  down  for 
them  :  for  there  be  of  them,  that  will  themselves  laugh, 
to  set  on  some  quantity  of  barren  spectators  to  laugh 
too;  though,  in  the  mean  time,  some  necessary  question 
of  the  play  be  then  to  be  considered:  that's  villainous; 
and  shews  a  most  pitiful  ambition  in  the  fool  that  uses 
it.     Go,  make  you  ready.  [Exeunt  Players. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  99 

OTHELLO. 

From 

Act  I.,   Scene  hi. 

Senate,  Duke,  Brabaniw,  Othello,  lago,  et  al. 

Duke.     Valiant  Othello,  we  must  straight  employ  you 
Against  the  general  enemy  Ottoman. 
I  did  not  see  you;  welcome  gentle  signior; 

(To  Brabantio.) 
We  lack'd  your  counsel  and  your  help  to-night. 

Bra.     So  did  I  yours:  Good  your  grace,  pardon  me; 
Neither  my  place,  nor  aught  I  heard  of  business, 
Hath  raised  me  from  my  bed  ;  nor  doth  the  general  care 
Take  hold  on  me ;  for  my  particular  grief 
Is  of  so  flood-gate  and  o'erbearing  nature, 
That  it  engluts  and  swallows  other  sorrows, 
And  it  is  still  itself. 

Duke.     Why,  what's  the  matter.!* 

Bra.     My  daughter!  O  my  daughter! 

Sen.     Dead .'' 

Bra.     Ay,  to  me  ; 
She  is  abus'd,  stol'n  from  me,  and  corrupted 
By  spells  and  medicines  bought  of  mountebanks: 
For  nature  so  preposterously  to  err. 
Being  not  deficient,  blind,  or  lame  of  sense. 
Sans  witchcraft  could  not  — 

Duke.     Whoe'er  he  be,  that,  in  this  foul  proceeding. 
Hath  thus  beguiled  your  daughter  of  herself, 
And  you  of  her,  the  bloody  book  of  law 


100  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

You  shall  yourself  read  in  the  bitter  letter, 

After  your  own  sense;  yea,  though  our  proper  son 

Stood  in  your  action. 

Bra.     Humbly  I  thank  your  grace. 
Here  is  the  man,  this  Moor;  whom  now,  it  seems, 
Your  special  mandate,  for  the  state  affairs, 
Hath  hither  brought. 

All.     We  are  very  sorry  for  't. 

Duke.     What,  in  your  own  part,  can  you  say  to  this  ? 

{To  Othello) 

Bra.     Nothing,  but  this  is  so. 

OtJi.     Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors. 
My  very  noble  and  approved  good  masters, — 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  old  man's  daughter. 
It  is  most  true;  true,  I  have  married  her; 
The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending 
Hath  this  extent,  no  more.      Rude  am  I  in  my  speech, 
And  little  bless'd  with  the  soft  phrase  of  peace ; 
For  since  these  arms  of  mine  had  seven  years'  pith. 
Till  now,  some  nine  moons  wasted,  they  have  us'd 
Their  dearest  action  in  the  tented  field; 
And  little  of  this  great  world  can  I  speak. 
More  than  pertains  to  feats  of  broils  and  battle; 
And  therefore  little  shall  I  grace  my  cause. 
In  speaking  for  myself  :  Yet,  by  your  gracious  patience, 
I  will  a  round  unvarnish'd  tale  deliver 
Of  my  whole  course  of  love;  what  drugs,  what  charms, 
What  conjuration,  and  what  mighty  magic, 
(For  such  proceeding  I  am  charg'd  withal,) 
I  won  his  daughter. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  101 

Bra.     A  maiden  never  bold; 
Of  spirit  so  still  and  quiet,  that  her  motion 
Blush'd  at  herself;  and  she,  —  in  spite  of  nature, 
Of  years,  of  country,  credit,  everything, — 
To  fall  in  love  with  what  she  fear'd  to  look  on! 
It  is  a  judgment  maim'd,  and  most  imperfect, 
That  will  confess  perfection  so  could  err 
Against  all  rules  of  nature  ;  and  must  be  driven 
To  find  out  practices  of  cunning  hell. 
Why  this  should  be.      I  therefore  vouch  again, 
That  with  some  mixtures  powerful  o'er  the  blood, 
Or  with  some  dram  conjur'd  to  this  effect, 
He  wrought  upon  her. 

Duke.     To  vouch  this,  is  no  proof ; 
Without  more  wider  and  more  overt  test, 
Than  these  thin  habits,  and  poor  likelihoods 
Of  modern  seeming,  do  prefer  against  him. 

/  Sen.     But,  Othello,  speak:  — 
Did  you,  by  indirect  and  forced  courses 
Subdue  and  poison  this  young  maid's  affections } 
Or  came  it  by  request,  and  such  fair  question 
As  soul  to  soul  affordeth  } 

0th.     I  do  beseech  you. 
Send  for  the  lady  to  the  Sagittary, 
And  let  her  speak  of  me  before  her  father: 
If  you  do  find  me  foul  in  her  report. 
The  trust,  the  office,  I  do  hold  of  you. 
Not  only  take  away,  but  let  your  sentence 
Even  fall  upon  my  life. 

Duke.      Fetch  Desdemona  hither. 


102  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

0th.     Ancient,  conduct   them  ;  you   best   know  the 
place.  —  \Exetint  lago  and  attendaiits. 

And,  till  she  come,  as  truly  as  to  Heaven 
I  do  confess  the  vices  of  my  blood, 
So  justly  to  your  grave  ears  I'll  present 
How  I  did  thrive  in  this  fair  lady's  love. 
And  she  in  mine. 

Duke.     Say  it,  Othello. 

OtJi.     Her  father  lov'd  me;  oft  invited  me; 
Still  question'd  me  the  story  of  my  life. 
From  year  to  year  ;  the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes. 
That  I  have  pass'd. 

I  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days. 
To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it. 
Wherein  I  spoke  of  most  disastrous  chances, 
Of  moving  accidents,  by  flood  and  field ; 
Of  hair-breadth  'scapes  i'  the  imminent,  deadly  breach  ; 
Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe. 
And  sold  to  slavery;  of  my  redemption  thence, 
And  portance.     In  my  traveller's  history 
(Wherein  of  antres  vast,  and  deserts  idle, 
Rough   quarries,   rocks,   and  hills  whose   heads  touch, 

heaven. 
It  was  my  hint  to  speak),  such  was  my  process ; 
And  of  the  Cannibals  that  each  other  eat, 
The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 
Do   grow   beneath   their   shoulders.     These   things  to 

hear. 
Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline: 
But  still  the  house  affairs  would  draw  her  thence ; 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  103 

Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  despatch, 

She  'd  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 

Devour  up  my  discourse  :  Which  I  observing, 

Took  once  a  pliant  hour ;  and  found  good  means 

To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart, 

That  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate, 

Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard, 

But  not  intentively:  I  did  consent; 

And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears. 

When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke, 

That  my  youth  suffer'd.      My  story  being  done. 

She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs: 

She  swore,  —  In  faith,  't  was  strange,  't  was  passing 

strange  ; 
'T  was  pitiful,  't  was  wondrous  pitiful: 
She  wish'd  she  had  not  heard  it,  yet  she  wish'd 
That  Heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man:  she  thank'd 

me. 
And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  loved  her, 
I  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story, 
And  that  would  woo  her.     Upon  this  hint,  I  spake; 
She  lov'd  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd; 
And  I  lov'd  her,  that  she  did  pity  them. 
This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  us'd; 
Here  comes  the  lady,  let  her  witness  it. 


104  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Fro7n 

Act  v.,  Scene  ii. 

Othello,  lago,  Lodovico,  Officers,  et  al. 

0th.     Soft  you  ;  a  word  or  two,  before  you  go. 

I  have  done  the  state  some  service,  and  they  know  it; 

No  more  of  that : — I  pray  you,  in  your  letters, 

When  you  shall  these  unlucky  deeds  relate, 

Speak  of  me  as  I  am  ;  nothing  extenuate, 

Nor  set  down  aught  in  malice:  then  must  you  speak 

Of  one,  that  loved  not  wisely,  but  too  well; 

Of  one,  not  easily  jealous,  but,  being  wrought, 

Perplex'd  in  the  extreme;  of  one,  whose  hand. 

Like  the  base  Indian,  threw  a  pearl  away. 

Richer  than  all  his  tribe ;  of  one,  whose  subdu'd  eyes. 

Albeit  unused  to  the  melting  mood, 

Drop  tears  as  fast  as  the  Arabian  trees 

Their  medicinable  gum:  Set  you  down  this; 

And  say,  besides,  —  that  in  Aleppo  once. 

Where  a  malignant  and  a  turban'd  Turk 

Beat  a  Venetian,  and  traduc'd  the  state, 

I  took  by  the  throat  the  circumcised  dog. 

And  smote  him  —  thus. 

(Stabs  himself}) 


WI-LLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  105 


THE    MERCHANT    OF    VENICE. 

From 
Act  IV.,   Scene  i. 

Duke,  the  Magnificoes,  Portia,  Nerissa,  Shy  lock,  Antonio, 
Bassanio,  Gratiano,  and  others. 

Duke.     You  hear  the  learn'd  Bellario,  what  he  writes  : 
And  here,  I  take  it,  is  the  doctor  come.  — • 

Enter  Portia,  dressed  like  a  doctor  of  laws. 
Give  me  your  hand  :  Came  you  from  old  Bellario  .'' 

Por.     I  did,  my  lord. 

Duke.     You  are  welcome  :  take  your  place. 
Are  you  acquainted  with  the  difference 
That  holds  this  present  question  in  the  court .? 

Por.      I  am  informed  thoroughly  of  the  cause. 
Which  is  the  merchant  here,  and  which  the  Jew  .■' 

Duke.     Antonio  and  old  Shylock,  both  stand  forth. 

Por.     Is  your  name  Shylock  .? 

Shy.     Shylock  is  my  name. 

Por.     Of  a  strange  nature  is  the  suit  you  follow; 

Yet  in  such  rule,  that  the  Venetian  law 

Cannot  impugn  you,  as  you  do  proceed.  — 

You  stand  within  his  danger,  do  you  not .'' 

{To  Antonio) 
Ant.     Ay,  so  he  says. 

Por.     Do  you  confess  the  bond  } 

Ant.     I  do. 

Por.     Then  must  the  Jew  be  merciful. 


1 


106  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Shy.      On  what  compulsion  must  I  ?   tell  me  that. 

Por.     The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd ; 
It  droppeth,  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven, 
Upon  the  place  beneath  ;  it  is  twice  bless'd,  — 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes : 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown; 
His  sceptre  shews  the  force  of  temporal  power, 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty. 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings ; 
But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway. 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  shew  likest  God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this, — 
That  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation  :  we  do  pray  for  mercy ; 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy.      I  have  spoke  thus  much 
To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  plea; 
Which  if  thou  follow,  this  strict  court  of  Venice 
Must  needs  give  sentence  'gainst  the  merchant  there. 

Shy.     My  deeds  upon  my  head  !     I  crave  the  law, 
The  penalty  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 

Por.     Is  he  not  able  to  discharge  the  money } 

Bass.     Yes,  here  I  tender  it  for  him  in  the  court; 
Yea,  twice  the  sum  :  if  that  will  not  suffice, 
I  will  be  bound  to  pay  it  ten  times  o'er. 
On  forfeit  of  my  hands,  my  head,  my  heart ; 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  107 

If  this  will  not  suffice,  it  must  appear, 

That  malice  bears  down  truth.     And  I  beseech  you. 

Wrest  once  the  law  to  your  authority : 

To  do  a  great  right,  do  a  little  wrong ; 

And  curb  this  cruel  devil  of  his  will. 

Por.     It  must  not  be ;  there  is  no  power  in  Venice 
Can  alter  a  decree  established: 
'T  will  be  recorded  for  a  precedent ; 
And  many  an  error,  by  the  same  example, 
Will  rush  into  the  state  :  It  cannot  be. 

SJiy.     A  Daniel  come  to  judgment — yea,  a  Daniel !  — 
O  wise  young  judge,  how  do  I  honour  thee! 

Por.     I  pray  you,  let  me  look  upon  the  bond. 

SJiy.     Here  't  is,  most  reverend  doctor,  here  it  is. 

Por.     Shylock,  there  's  thrice  thy  money  offer'd 
thee. 

SJiy.     An  oath,  an  oath,  I  have  an  oath  in  heaven  : 
Shall  I  lay  perjury  upon  my  soul .-' 
No,  not  for  Venice. 

Por.     Why,  this  bond  is  forfeit ; 
And  lawfully  by  this  the  Jew  may  claim 
A  pound  of  flesh,  to  be  by  him  cut  off 
Nearest  the  merchant's  heart  :  —  Be  merciful ; 
Take  thrice  the  money,  bid  me  tear  the  bond. 

SJiy.     When  it  is  paid  according  to  the  tenour. 
It  doth  appear,  you  are  a  worthy  judge; 
You  know  the  law,  your  exposition 
Hath  been  most  sound  :  I  charge  you  by  the  law, 
Whereof  you  are  a  well-deserving  pillar. 
Proceed  to  judgment  :  by  my  soul  I  swear, 


108  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

There  is  no  power  in  the  tongue  of  man 
To  alter  me.      I  stay  here  on  my  bond. 

Ant.     Most  heartily  I  do  beseech  the  court 
To  give  the  judgment. 

Por.     Why,  then,  thus  it  is. 
You  must  prepare  your  bosom  for  his  knife. 

Shy.     O  noble  judge  !  O  excellent  young  man  ! 

Por.     For  the  intent  and  purpose  of  the  law 
Hath  full  relation  to  the  penalty, 
Which  here  appeareth  due  upon  the  bond. 

Sky.     'Tis  very  true.      O  wise  and  upright  judge ! 
How  much  more  elder  art  thou  than  thy  looks  ! 

Por.     Therefore  lay  bare  your  bosom. 

Shy.     Ay,  his  breast : 
So  says  the  bond,  —  Doth  it  not,  noble  judge  }  — 
Nearest  his  heart,  those  are  the  very  words. 

Por.     It  is  so.     Are  there  balance  here,  to  weigh 
The  flesh  > 

Shy.     I  have  them  ready. 

Por.     Have    by    some    surgeon,    Shylock,    on   your 
charge. 
To  stop  his  wounds,  lest  he  do  bleed  to  death. 

Shy.     Is  it  so  nominated  in  the  bond } 

Por.     It  is  not  so  express'd.     But  what  of  that } 
'T  were  good  you  do  so  much  for  charity. 

Shy.     I  cannot  find  it;  't  is  not  in  the  bond. 

Por.     Come,  merchant,  have  you  anything  to  say  > 

Ant.     But  little;   I  am  arm'd,  and  well  prepared. — 
Give  me  your  hand,  Bassanio  ;  fare  you  well ! 
Grieve  not,  that  I  am  fallen  to  this  for  you  ; 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  109 

For  herein  fortune  shews  herself  more  kind 

Than  is  her  custom  :  it  is  still  her  use, 

To  let  the  wretched  man  outlive  his  wealth, 

To  view  with  hollow  eye,  and  wrinkled  brow, 

An  age  of  poverty ;  from  which  Ungering  penance 

Of  such  a  misery  doth  she  cut  me  off. 

Commend  me  to  your  honourable  wife: 

Tell  her  the  process  of  Antonio's  end. 

Say,  how  I  loved  you,  speak  me  fair  in  death ; 

And,  when  the  tale  is  told,  bid  her  be  judge, 

Whether  Bassanio  had  not  once  a  love. 

Repent  not  you  that  you  shall  lose  your  friend, 

And  he  repents  not,  that  he  pays  your  debt. 

For,  if  the  Jew  do  cut  but  deep  enough, 

I  '11  pay  it  instantly  with  all  my  heart. 

Bass.     Antonio,  I  am  married  to  a  wife. 
Which  is  as  dear  to  me  as  life  itself ; 
But  life  itself,  my  wife,  and  all  the  world, 
Are  not  with  me  esteem'd  above  thy  life : 
I  would  lose  all,  ay,  sacrifice  them  all 
Here  to  this  devil  to  deliver  you. 

Por.     Your  wife  would  give  you  little  thanks  for  that 
If  she  were  by,  to  hear  you  make  the  offer. 

Gra.     I  have  a  wife,  whom,  I  protest,  I  love. 
I  would  she  were  in  heaven,  so  she  could 
Entreat  some  power  to  change  this  currish  Jew. 

Ner.     'T  is  well  you  offer  it  behind  her  back; 
The  wish  would  make  else  an  unquiet  house. 

Shy.     These  be  the   Christian  husbands:    I  have  a 
daughter ; 


110  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Would,  any  of  the  stock  of  Barrabas 

Had  been  her  husband,  rather  than  a  Christian  ! 

{Aside.) 
We  trifle  time ;  I  pray  thee,  pursue  sentence. 

Por.     A  pound  of  that  same  merchant's  flesh  is  thine  ; 
The  court  awards  it,  and  the  law  doth  give  it. 

SJiy.     Most  rightful  judge  ! 

Por.     And  you  must  cut  this  flesh  from  off  his  breast ; 
The  law  allows  it,  and  the  court  awards  it. 

Shy.      Most    learned   judge! — ^A  sentence;    come, 
prepare. 

Por.     Tarry  a  little  :  —  there  is  something  else.  — 
This  bond  doth  give  thee  here  no  jot  of  blood  ; 
The  words  expressly  are,  a  pound  of  flesh  : 
Take  then  thy  bond,  take  thou  thy  pound  of  flesh  ; 
But  in  the  cutting  it,  if  thou  dost  shed 
One  drop  of  Christian  blood,  thy  lands  and  goods 
Are,  by  the  laws  of  Venice,  confiscate 
Unto  the  state  of  Venice. 

Gra.     O  upright  judge  !  —  Mark,  Jew,  —  O  learned 
judge ! 

Shy.     Is  that  the  law  } 

Por.     Thyself  shall  see  the  act : 
For,  as  thou  urgest  justice,  be  assured. 
Thou  shalt  have  justice,  more  than  thou  desirest. 

Gra.      O  learned  judge!  —  Mark,  Jew  ; — a  learned 
judge ! 

SJiy.      I  take  this  offer  then,  —  pay  the  bond  thrice, 
And  let  the  Christian  go. 

Bass.     Here  is  the  money. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  Ill 

Por.      Soft ; 
The  Jew  shall  have  all  justice  ;  —  soft ;  —  no  haste ;  — 
He  shall  have  nothing  but  the  penalty. 

Gra.     O  Jew  !  an  upright  judge,  a  learned  judge  ! 

Por.     Therefore,  prepare  thee  to  cut  off  the  fiesh. 
Shed  thou  no  blood ;  nor  cut  thou  less,  nor  more, 
But  just  a  pound  of  flesh;  if  thou  tak'st  more. 
Or  less,  than  just  a  pound,  — be  it  but  so  much 
As  makes  it  light,  or  heavy,  in  the  substance. 
Or  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part  • 

Of  one  poor  scruple  ;  nay,  if  the  scale  do  turn 
But  in  the  estimation  of  a  hair,  — 
Thou  diest,  and  all  thy  goods  are  confiscate. 

Gra.     A  second  Daniel,  a  Daniel,  Jew ! 
Now,  infidel,  I  have  thee  on  the  hip. 

Por.     Why  doth  the  Jew  pause  .^  take  thy  forfeiture. 

Shy.     Give  me  my  principal,  and  let  me  go. 

Bass.     I  have  it  ready  for  thee  ;  here  it  is. 

Por.      He  hath  refused  it  in  the  open  court; 
He  shall  have  merely  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Gra.     A  Daniel,  still  say  I  ;  a  second  Daniel !  — 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word. 

Shy.     Shall  I  not  have  barely  my  principal  ? 

Por.     Thou  shalt  have  nothing  but  the  forfeiture, 
To  be  so  taken  at  thy  peril,  Jew. 

Shy.     Why  then  the  devil  give  him  good  of  it  ! 
I  '11  stay  no  longer  question. 

Por.      Tarry,  Jew  ; 
The  law  hath  yet  another  hold  on  you. 
It  is  enacted  in  the  laws  of  Venice,  — ■ 


112  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

If  it  be  proved  against  an  alien, 

That  by  direct  or  indirect  attempts, 

He  seek  the  life  of  any  citizen, 

The  party  'gainst  the  which  he  doth  contrive, 

Shall  seize  one  half  his  goods  :  the  other  half 

Comes  to  the  privy  coffer  of  the  state  ; 

And  the  offender's  life  lies  in  the  mercy 

Of  the  duke  only,  'gainst  all  other  voice. 

In  which  predicament,  I  say,  thou  stand'st : 

For  it  appears  by  manifest  proceeding, 

That,  indirectly,  and  directly  too, 

Thou  hast  contrived  against  the  very  life 

Of  the  defendant;  and  thou  hast  incurr'd 

The  danger  formerly  by  me  rehearsed. 

Down,  therefore,  and  beg  mercy  of  the  duke. 

Gra.     Beg,  that   thou   may'st   have  leave    to    hang 
thyself  : 
And  yet  thy  wealth  being  forfeit  to  the  state, 
Thou  hast  not  left  the  value  of  a  cord ; 
Therefore,  thou  must  be  hang'd  at  the  state's  charge. 

Duke..    That  thou  shalt  see  the  difference  of  our  spirit, 
I  pardon  thee  thy  life,  before  thou  ask  it ; 
For  half  thy  wealth,  it  is  Antonio's  ; 
The  other  half  comes  to  the  general  state. 
Which  humbleness  may  drive  unto  a  fine. 

Por.     Ay,  for  the  state ;  not  for  Antonio. 

Shy.     Nay,  take  my  life  and  all,  pardon  not  that : 
You  take  my  house,  when  you  do  take  the  prop 
That  doth  sustain  my  house ;  you  take  my  life. 
When  you  do  take  the  means  whereby  I  live. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  113 

Por.     What  mercy  can  you  render  him,  Antonio  ? 

Gra.     A  halter  gratis  ;  nothing  else,  for  God's  sake. 

Ant.     So  please  my  lord  the  duke,  and  all  the  court, 
To  quit  the  fine  for  one  half  of  his  goods ; 
I  am  content,  so  he  will  let  me  have 
The  other  half  in  use,  —  to  render  it. 
Upon  his  death,  unto  the  gentleman 
That  lately  stole  his  daughter : 
Two  things  provided  more,  —  that,  for  this  favour. 
He  presently  become  a  Christian; 
The  other,  that  he  do  record  a  gift. 
Here  in  the  court,  of  all  he  dies  possess'd. 
Unto  his  son  Lorenzo,  and  his  daughter. 

Duke.     He  shall  do  this ;  or  else  I  do  recant 
The  pardon  that  I  late  pronounced  here. 

Por.     Art  thou  contented,  Jew  }  what  dost  thou  say  .-• 

Shy.     I  am  content. 

Por.     Clerk,  draw  a  deed  of  gift. 

Shy.     I  pray  you,  give  me  leave  to  go  from  hence; 
I  am  not  well;  send  the  deed  after  me, 
And  I  will  sign  it. 

Duke.     Get  thee  gone,  but  do  it. 


114  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


JULIUS    C^SAR. 

From 
Act  I.,  Scene  i. 

Cass  ins  —  B  nit  us. 

Cas.     Will  you  go  see  the  order  of  the  course  ? 

Bru.     Not  I. 

Cas.      I  pray  you,  do. 

Bi'ii.     I  am  not  gamesome  :  I  do  lack  some  part 
Of  that  quick  spirit  that  is  in  Antony. 
Let  me  not  hinder,  Cassius,  your  desires  ; 
I  '11  leave  you. 

Cas.     Brutus,  I  do  observe  you  now  of  late : 
I  have  not  from  your  eyes  that  gentleness, 
And  show  of  love,  as  I  was  wont  to  have  : 
You  bear  too  stubborn  and  too  strange  a  hand 
Over  your  friend  that  loves  you. 

Bru.     Cassius, 
Be  not  deceived  :  If  I  have  veil'd  my  look, 
I  turn  the  trouble  of  my  countenance 
Merely  upon  myself.     Vexed  I  am 
Of  late,  with  passions  of  some  difference. 
Conceptions  only  proper  to  myself. 
Which  give  some  soil,  perhaps,  to  my  behaviours  : 
But  let  not  therefore  my  good  friends  be  griev'd ; 
(Among  which  number,  Cassius,  be  you  one ;) 
Nor  construe  any  further  my  neglect, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  115 

Than  that  poor  Brutus,  with  himself  at  war, 
Forgets  the  shows  of  love  to  other  men. 

Cas.     Then,    Brutus,    I    have    much    mistook    your 
passion  ; 
By  means  whereof,  this  breast  of  mine  hath  buried 
Thoughts  of  great  value,  worthy  cogitations. 
Tell  me,  good  Brutus,  can  you  see  your  face  } 

Bni.     No,  Cassius  :  for  the  eye  sees  not  itself, 
But  by  reflection,  by  some  other  things. 

Cas.     'T  is  just ; 
And  it  is  very  much  lamented,  Brutus, 
That  you  have  no  such  mirrors  as  will  turn 
Your  hidden  worthiness  into  your  eye. 
That  you  might  see  your  shadow.      I  have  heard. 
Where  many  of  the  best  respect  in  Rome, 
(Except  immortal  Caesar,)  speaking  of  Brutus, 
And  groaning  underneath  this  age's  yoke. 
Have  wished  that  noble  Brutus  had  his  eyes. 

Bru.     Into  what  dangers  would  you  lead  me,  Cassius, 
That  you  would  have  me  seek  into  myself. 
For  that  which  is  not  in  me } 

Cas.     Therefore,  good  Brutus,  be  prepared  to  hear : 
And,  since  you  know  you  cannot  see  yourself 
So  well  as  by  reflection,  I,  your  glass. 
Will  modestly  discover  to  yourself 
That  of  yourself  which  you  yet  know  not  of. 
And  be  not  jealous  on  me,  gentle  Brutus  : 
Were  I  a  common  laugher,  or  did  use 
To  stale  with  ordinary  oaths  my  love 
To  every  new  protester ;  if  you  know. 


116  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

That  I  do  fawn  on  men,  and  hug  them  hard, 
And  after  scandal  them,  or  if  you  know- 
That  I  profess  myself  in  banqueting 
To  all  the  rout,  then  hold  me  dangerous. 

{Flourish  and  shout ^ 

Bru.     What  means  this  shouting  ?     I  do  fear,  the 
Choose  Caesar  for  their  king.  [people 

Cas.     Ay,  do  you  fear  it .'' 
Then  must  I  think  you  would  not  have  it  so. 

Bru.     I  would  not,  Cassius ;  yet  I  love  him  well:  — 
But  wherefore  do  you  hold  me  here  so  long } 
What  is  it  that  you  would  impart  to  me .'' 
If  it  be  aught  toward  the  general  good, 
Set  honour  in  one  eye,  and  death  i'  the  other, 
And  I  will  look  on  both  indifferently  : 
For,  let  the  gods  so  speed  me,  as  I  love 
The  name  of  honour  more  than  I  fear  death. 

Cos.     I  know  that  virtue  to  be  in  you,  Brutus, 
As  well  as  I  do  know  your  outward  favour. 
Well,  honour  is  the  subject  of  my  story. — 
I  cannot  tell,  what  you  and  other  men 
Think  of  this  life ;  but,  for  my  single  self, 
I  had  as  lief  not  be,  as  live  to  be 
In  awe  of  such  a  thing  as  I  myself. 
I  was  born  free  as  Caesar ;  so  were  you : 
We  both  have  fed  as  well ;  and  we  can  both 
Endure  the  winter's  cold,  as  well  as  he. 
For  once,  upon  a  raw  and  gusty  day, 
The  troubled  Tiber  chafing  with  her  shores, 
Caesar  said  to  me,  "  Dar'st  thou,  Cassius,  now 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  117 

Leap  in  with  me  into  this  angry  flood, 

And  swim  to  yonder  point  ?  " — Upon  the  word, 

Accoutred  as  I  was,  I  plunged  in, 

And  bade  him  follow ;   so,  indeed,  he  did. 

The  torrent  roar'd  ;  and  we  did  buffet  it 

With  lusty  sinews  ;  throwing  it  aside 

And  stemming  it  with  hearts  of  controversy. 

But  ere  we  could  arrive  the  point  proposed, 

Caesar  cried.  Help  me,  Casshis,  or  I  sink. 

I,  as  ^neas,  our  great  ancestor. 

Did  from  the  flames  of  Troy  upon  his  shoulder 

The  old  Anchises  bear,  so,  from  the  waves  of  Tiber 

Did  I  the  tired  Caesar :  And  this  man 

Is  now  become  a  god ;  and  Cassius  is 

A  wretched  creature,  and  must  bend  his  body. 
If  Caesar  carelessly  but  nod  on  him. 
He  had  a  fever  when  he  was  in  Spain, 
And,  when  the  fit  was  on  him,  I  did  mark 
How  he  did  shake  :  't  is  true,  this  god  did  shake  : 
His  coward  lips  did  from  their  colour  fly ; 
And  that  same  eye,  whose  bend  doth  awe  the  world, 
Did  lose  his  lustre  :  I  did  hear  him  groan  : 
Ay,  and  that  tongue  of  his,  that  bade  the  Romans 
Mark  him,  and  write  his  speeches  in  their  books, 
Alas  !  it  cried.  Give  7ne  some  drink,  Titinius, 
As  a  sick  girl.     Ye  gods,  it  doth  amaze  me, 
A  man  of  such  a  feeble  temper  should 
So  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world. 
And  bear  the  palm  alone.  {Shout.    Flourish) 

Bru.     Another  general  shout ! 


118  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

I  do  believe  that  these  applauses  are 

For  some  new  honours  that  are  heap'd  on  Caesar. 

Cas.      Why,  man,  he  doth  bestride  the  narrow  world, 
Like  a  Colossus  ;  and  we  petty  men 
Walk  under  his  huge  legs,  and  peep  about 
To  find  ourselves  dishonourable  graves. 
Men  at  some  time  are  masters  of  their  fates  : 
The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our  stars, 
But  in  ourselves,  that  we  are  underlings. 
Brutus,  and  Caesar  :  What  should  be  in  that  Caesar .'' 
Why  should  that  name  be  sounded  more  than  yours  } 
Write  them  together,  yours  is  as  fair  a  name ; 
Sound  them,  it  doth  become  the  mouth  as  well ; 
Weigh  them,  it  is  as  heavy;  conjure  with  them, 
Brutus  will  start  a  spirit  as  soon  as  Caesar.         [Shout.) 
Now  in  the  names  of  all  the  gods  at  once, 
Upon  what  meat  doth  this  our  Caesar  feed, 
That  he  is  grown  so  great  .''     Age,  thou  art  shamed  ! 
Rome,  thou  hast  lost  the  breed  of  noble  bloods  ! 
When  went  there  by  an  age,  since  the  great  flood. 
But  it  was  famed  with  more  than  with  one  man  .? 
When  could  they  say,  till  now,  that  talk'd  of  Rome, 
That  her  wide  walks  encompass'd  but  one  man  .-' 
Now  is  it  Rome  indeed,  and  room  enough, 
When  there  is  in  it  but  one  only  man. 
O  !  you  and  I  have  heard  our  fathers  say. 
There  was  a  Brutus  once  that  would  have  brook'd 
The  eternal  devil  to  keep  his  state  in  Rome, 
As  easily  as  a  king. 

Bni.     That  you  do  love  me,  I  am  nothing  jealous; 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  119 

What  you  would  work  me  to,  I  have  some  aim : 

How  I  have  thought  of  this,  and  of  these  times, 

I  shall  recount  hereafter ;  for  this  present, 

I  would  not,  so  with  love  I  might  entreat  you, 

Be  any  farther  moved.     What  you  have  said, 

I  will  consider ;  what  you  have  to  say, 

I  will  with  patience  hear :  and  find  a  time 

Both  meet  to  hear,  and  answer,  such  high  things. 

Till  then,  my  noble  friend,  chew  upon  this; 

Brutus  had  rather  be  a  villager, 

Than  to  repute  himself  a  son  of  Rome 

Under  these  hard  conditions  as  this  time 

Is  like  to  lay  upon  us. 

Cas.      I  am  glad  that  my  weak  words 
Have  struck  but  thus  much  shew  of  fire  from  Brutus. 


KING    HENRY    IV.,    PART    II. 

F7-oin 
Act  III.,  Scene  i. 

King  Henry  IV.  —  Page. 

K.  Hen.    Go,  call  the  earls  of  Surrey  and  of  Warwick  ; 
But  ere  they  come,  bid  them  o'er-read  these  letters. 
And  well  consider  of  them  :  Make  good  speed. 

\Exit  Page. 
How  many  thousand  of  my  poorest  subjects 
Are  at  this  hour  asleep  !  —  O  sleep,  O  gentle  sleep, 
Nature's  soft  nurse,  how  have  I  frighted  thee, 


120  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

That  thou  no  more  wilt  weigh  my  eyelids  down, 

And  steep  my  senses  in  forgetfulness  ?  ■ 

Why  rather,  sleep,  liest  thou  in  smoky  cribs, 

Upon  uneasy  pallets  stretching  thee. 

And  hush'd  with  buzzing  night-flies  to  thy  slumber. 

Than  in  the  perfum'd  chambers  of  the  great. 

Under  the  canopies  of  costly  state. 

And  lull'd  with  sounds  of  sweetest  melody  ? 

O  thou  dull  god,  why  liest  thou  with  the  vile 

In  loathsome  beds  ;  and  leav'st  the  kingly  couch, 

A  watch-case,  or  a  common  'larum  bell  ? 

Wilt  thou  upon  the  high  and  giddy  mast 

Seal  up  the  ship-boy's  eyes,  and  rock  his  brains 

In  cradle  of  the  rude  imperious  surge, 

And  in  the  visitation  of  the  winds. 

Who  take  the  ruffian  billows  by  the  top. 

Curling  their  monstrous  heads,  and  hanging  them 

With  deaf'ning  clamours  in  the  slippery  clouds. 

That,  with  the  hurly,  death  itself  awakes  ? 

Canst   thou,  O  partial  sleep !  give  thy  repose 

To  the  wet  sea-boy  in  an  hour  so  rude ; 

And,  in  the  calmest  and  most  stillest  night. 

With  all  appliances  and  means  to  boot. 

Deny  it  to  a  king  ?     Then,  happy  low,  lie  down  ; 

Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  121 

From 

Act  IV.,  Scene  iv. 

Prince  Henry. 

Why  doth  the  crown  lie  there  upon  his  pillow, 

Being  so  troublesome  a  bedfellow  ? 

O  polish'd  perturbation  !  golden  care  ! 

That  keep'st  the  ports  of  slumber  open  wide 

To  many  a  watchful  night !  —  sleep  with  it  now  ! 

Yet  not  so  sound,  and  half  so  deeply  sweet. 

As  he,  whose  brow,  with  homely  biggin  bound, 

Snores  out  the  watch  of  night.      O  majesty ! 

When  thou  dost  pinch  thy  bearer,  thou  dost  sit 

Like  a  rich  armour,  worn  in  heat  of  day. 

That  scalds  with  safety.     By  his  gates  of  breath 

There  lies  a  downy  feather,  which  stirs  not : 

Did  he  suspire,  that  light  and  weightless  down 

Perforce  must  move.  —  My  gracious  lord  !  my  father  ! 

This  sleep  is  sound  indeed  ;  this  is  a  sleep. 

That  from  this  golden  rigol  hath  divorced 

So  many  English  kings.     Thy  due,  from  me, 

Is  tears,  and  heavy  sorrows  of  the  blood  ; 

Which  nature,  love,  and  filial  tenderness, 

Shall,  O  dear  father,  pay  thee  plenteously : 

My  due,  from  thee,  is  this  imperial  crown; 

Which,  as  immediate  from  thy  place  and  blood. 

Derives  itself  to  me.      Lo,  here  it  sits,  — 

{Putting  it  on  his  head.) 


122  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Which  Heaven  shall  guard  :  And  put  the  world's  whole 

strength 
Into  one  giant  arm,  it  shall  not  force 
This  lineal  honour  from  me  :  This  from  thee 
Will  I  to  mine  leave,  as  't  is  left  to  me. 


HENRY   V. 

From 
Act  III.,  Scene  i. 

King  Henry,  Exeter,  Bedford,   Gloster,  and  Soldiers,  wUh 

scaling  ladders. 

K.  Hen.      Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends, 
once  more ; 
Or  close  the  wall  up  with  our  English  dead ! 
In  peace,  there  's  nothing  so  becomes  a  man, 
As  modest  stillness  and  humility  : 
But  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears, 
Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger; 
Stiffen  the  sinews,  summon  up  the  blood, 
Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard-favour'd  rage. 
Then  lend  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect ; 
Let  it  pry  through  the  portage  of  the  head, 
Like  the  brass  cannon  ;  let  the  brow  o'erwhelm  it. 
As  fearfully  as  doth  a  galled  rock 
O'erhang  and  jutty  his  confounded  base 
Swill'd  with  the  wild  and  wasteful  ocean. 
Now  set  the  teeth,  and  stretch  the  nostril  wide ; 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  123 

Hold  hard  the  breath,  and  bend  up  every  spirit 

To  his  full  height !  —  On,  on  you  nobless  English, 

Whose  blood  is  fet  from  fathers  of  war-proof ! 

Fathers,  that,  like  so  many  Alexanders, 

Have,  in  these  parts,  from  morn  till  even  fought, 

And  sheathed  their  swords  for  lack  of  argument. 

Dishonour  not  your  mothers  :  now  attest. 

That  those,  whom  you  called  fathers  did  beget  you ! 

Be  copy  now  to  men  of  grosser  blood. 

And  teach  them  how  to  war  !  — and  you  good  yeomen, 

Whose  limbs  were  made  in  England,  show  us  here 

The  mettle  of  your  pasture ;  let  us  swear 

That  you  are  worth  your  breeding,  which  I  doubt  not ; 

For  there  is  none  of  you  so  mean  and  base, 

That  hath  not  noble  lustre  in  your  eyes. 

I  see  you  stand  like  greyhounds  in  the  slips. 

Straining  upon  the  start.     The  game  's  afoot ; 

Follow  your  spirit :  and,  upon  this  charge. 

Cry  —  God  for  Harry  !  England  !  and  Saint  George ! 


RICHARD   III. 

F'rom 
Act  I.,  Scene  i. 

Glosier. 

Glo.  Now  is  the  winter  of  our  discontent 
Made  glorious  summer  by  this  sun  of  York  ; 
And  all  the  clouds,  that  lower'd  upon  our  house, 


124  TWELVE  ENGLl'SH  POETS. 

In  the  dfeep  bosom  of  the  ocean  buried. 

Now  are  our  brows  bound  with  victorious  wreaths ; 

Our  bruised  arms  hung  up  for  monuments ; 

Our  stern  alarums  changed  to  merry  meetings, 

Our  dreadful  marches  to  delightful  measures. 

Grim-visaged  war  hath  smoothed  his  wrinkled  front ; 

And  now,  —  instead  of  mounting  barbed  steeds, 

To  fright  the  souls  of  fearful  adversaries,  — 

He  capers  nimbly  in  a  lady's  chamber. 

To  the  lascivious  pleasing  of  a  lute. 

But  I,  —  that  am  not  shaped  for  sportive  tricks. 

Nor  made  to  court  an  amorous  looking-glass ; 

I,  that  am  rudely  stamp'd,  and  want  love's  majesty. 

To  strut  before  a  wanton  ambling  nymph ; 

I,  that  am  curtail'd  of  this  fair  proportion, 

Cheated  of  feature  by  dissembling  nature, 

Deform'd,  unfinish'd,  sent  before  my  time 

Into  this  breathing  world,  scarce  half  made  up, 

And  that  so  lamely  and  unfashionable. 

That  dogs  bark  at  me,  as  I  halt  by  them ;  - 

Why  I,  in  this  weak  piping  time  of  peace. 

Have  no  delight  to  pass  away  the  time. 

Unless  to  see  my  shadow  in  the  sun. 

And  descant  on  mine  own  deformity ; 

And  therefore,  since  I  cannot  prove  a  lover 

To  entertain  these  fair  well-spoken  days, 

I  am  determined  to  prove  a  villain, 

And  hate  the  idle  pleasures  of  these  days. 

Plots  have  I  laid,  inductions  dangerous, 

By  drunken  prophecies,  libels,  and  dreams. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  125 

To  set  my  brother  Clarence,  and  the  king, 

In  deadly  hate,  the  one  against  the  other : 

And,  if  King  Edward  be  as  true  and  just, 

As  I  am  subtle,  false,  and  treacherous. 

This  day  should  Clarence  closely  be  mew'd  up ; 

About  a  prophecy,  which  says  that  G 

Of  Edward's  heirs  the  murtherer  shall  be. 

Dive,  thoughts,  down  to  my  soul !  here  Clarence  comes. 


KING    HENRY   VIII. 

From 
Act  III.,  Scene  n. 

Wolsey  —  Cromwell. 

VVol.     So  farewell  to  the  little  good  you  bear  me. 
Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness  ! 
This  is  the  state  of  man  :  to-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hopes ;  to-morrow  blossoms. 
And  bears  his  blushing  honours  thick  upon  him  : 
The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost ; 
And,  —  when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a  ripening,  —  nips  his  root. 
And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do.     I  have  ventured. 
Like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders, 
This  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory ; 
But  far  beyond  my  depth :  my  high-blown  pride 
At  length  broke  under  me ;  and  now  has  left  me, 
Weary,  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 


126  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  for  ever  hide  me. 
Vain  pomp,  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye  ; 
I  feel  my  heart  new  open'd  :  O,  how  wretched 
Is  that  poor  man,  that  hangs  on  princes'  favours ! 
There  is,  betwixt  that  smile  we  would  aspire  to. 
That  sweet  aspect  of  princes,  and  their  ruin. 
More  pangs  and  fears  than  wars  or  women  have ; 
And  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer, 
Never  to  hope  again.  — 

Enter  Cromwell,  amazedly. 

Why,  how  now,  Cromwell } 

Crotn.     I  have  no  power  to  speak,  sir. 

Wol.     What,  amaz'd 
At  my  misfortunes }  can  thy  spirit  wonder, 
A  great  man  should  decline.-'     Nay,  an  you  weep, 
I  am  fallen  indeed. 

Crom.     How  does  your  grace  .-• 

Wol.     Why,  well ; 
Never  so  truly  happy,  my  good  Cromwell. 
I  know  myself  now ;  and  I  feel  within  me 
A  peace  above  all  earthly  dignities, 
A  still  and  quiet  conscience.     The  king  has  cur'd  me, 
I  humbly  thank  his  grace ;  and  from  these  shoulders, 
These  ruin'd  pillars,  out  of  pity,  taken 
A  load  would  sink  a  navy,  too  much  honour : 
O,  't  is  a  burthen,  Cromwell,  't  is  a  burthen, 
Too  heavy  for  a  man  that  hopes  for  heaven. 

Crom.     I  am  glad,  your  grace  has  made  that  right 
use  of  it. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  127 

Wol.     I  hope  I  have  :  I  am  able  now,  methinks, 
(Out  of  a  fortitude  of  soul  I  feel,) 
To  endure  more  miseries,  and  greater  far, 
Than  my  weak-hearted  enemies  dare  offer. 
What  news  abroad  ? 

Cro7n.     The  heaviest,  and  the  worst, 
Is  your  displeasure  with  the  king. 

WoL     God  bless  him  ! 

Croni.     The  next  is,  that  Sir  Thomas  More  is  chosen 
Lord  Chancellor  in  your  place. 

Wol.     That 's  somewhat  sudden  : 
But  he's  a  learned  man.     May  he  continue 
Long  in  his  highness'  favour,  and  do  justice 
For  truth's  sake,  and  his  conscience ;  that  his  bones, 
When  he  has  run  his  course,  and  sleeps  in  blessings, 
May  have  a  tomb  of  orphans'  tears  wept  on  'em  ! 
What  more  .-' 

Croin.     That  Cranmer  is  return'd  with  welcome, 
Install'd  lord  archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

Wol.     That 's  news  indeed. 

Crom.     Last,  that  the  lady  Anne, 
Whom  the  king  hath  in  secrecy  long  married, 
This  day  was  view'd  in  open,  as  his  queen, 
Going  to  chapel ;  and  the  voice  is  now 
Only  about  her  coronation. 

Wol.     There  was  the  weight  that  pull'd  me  down. 
O  Cromwell, 
The  king  has  gone  beyond  me,  —  all  my  glories 
In  that  one  woman  I  have  lost  for  ever. 
No  sun  shall  ever  usher  forth  mine  honours. 


128  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Or  gild  again  the  noble  troops,  that  waited 

Upon  my  smiles.     Go,  get  thee  from  me,  Cromwell ; 

I  am  a  poor  fallen  man,  unworthy  now 

To  be  thy  lord  and  master  :     Seek  the  king ; 

That  sun,  I  pray,  may  never  set !     I  have  told  him 

What,  and  how  true  thou  art  :  he  will  advance  thee ; 

Some  little  memory  of  me  will  stir  him, 

(I  know  his  noble  nature,)  not  to  let 

Thy  hopeful  service  perish  too  :  Good  Cromwell, 

Neglect  him  not ;  make  use  now,  and  provide 

For  thine  own  future  safety. 

Crovi.      O  my  lord. 
Must  I  then  leave  you }  must  I  needs  forego 
So  good,  so  noble,  and  so  true  a  master } 
Bear  witness,  all  that  have  not  hearts  of  iron, 
With  what  a  sorrow  Cromwell  leaves  his  lord.  — 
The  king  shall  have  my  service ;  but  my  prayers 
For  ever,  and  for  ever,  shall  be  yours. 

Wol.     Cromwell,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 
In  all  my  miseries ;  but  thou  hast  forc'd  me. 
Out  of  thy  honest  truth,  to  play  the  woman. 
Let 's  dry  our  eyes  :  and  thus  far  hear  me,  Cromwell  ; 
And,  —  when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be  ; 
And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 
Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of,  —  say,  I  taught  thee, 
Say,  Wolsey,  —  that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory, 
And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honour,  — 
Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wrack,  to  rise  in ; 
A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  miss'd  it. 
Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruin'd  me. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  129 

Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition : 
By  that  sin  fell  the  angels ;  how  can  man  then, 
The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  it  ? 
Love  thyself  last :  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee ; 
Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 
Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace. 
To  silence  envious  tongues.      Be  just,  and  fear  not : 
Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at,  be  thy  country's, 
Thy  God's,  and  truth's ;  then  if  thou  fall'st,  O  Crom- 
well, 
Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr.     Serve  the  king ;    ' 
And,  —  Prithee,  lead  me  in  : 
There  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have, 
To  the  last  penny ;  't  is  the  king's  :  my  robe, 
And  my  integrity  to  Heaven,  is  all 
I  dare  now  call  mine  own.      O  Cromwell,  Cromwell, 
Had  I  but  served  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 
I  serv'd  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 
Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies. 

Crom.     Good  sir,  have  patience. 

Wol.     So  I  have.     Farewell 
The  hopes  of  court  !  my  hopes  in  heaven  do  dwell. 

\Exeu7it. 


IV.     JOHN  MILTON. 

I 608-1 674. 

John  Milton  was  a  little  boy  eight  years  old  when  Shake- 
speare died,  and  was  the  direct  heir  to  his  title,  "  The  hap- 
piest poet  of  his  time,  and  best." 

In  the  year  1608,  when  Shakespeare,  in  the  midst  of  his 
brilliant  career,  was  writing  perhaps  "  Coriolanus  "  or  "  Per- 
icles "  or  "  Troilus  and  Cressida,"  Milton  was  born  in  a  quiet 
little  house  in  Bread  Street,  in  London.  He  died  in  a  quiet 
house  in  Artillery  Walk,  Bunhill  Fields,  in  the  year  1674,  to 
be  known  through  after  times  as  "  John  Milton,  the  poet,  the 
statesman,  the  philosopher,  the  boast  of  English  literature, 
the  champion  and  the  martyr  of  English  liberty." 

We  think  of  Milton  and  study  his  life  in  three  pictures  : 
first,  as  a  child  so  beautiful  that  his  father  employed  the 
famous  Dutch  artist,  Cornelius  Janssen,  to  paint  his  portrait 
in  "laced  ruffles"  when  he  was  ten  years  old  ;  and  as  a  lad 
of  sixteen  at  Christ's  College,  Cambridge,  where  his  delicate 
beauty  and  refined  tastes  gained  him  the  nickname  "  The 
Lady."  We  think  of  him  as  a  diligent  little  student  whose 
wise  and  generous  father  determined  from  the  first  that  the 
bright,  promising,  thoughtful  boy  should  have  that  best  en- 
dowment, —  an  education  ;  and  we  read  how  he  said  himself, 
"  I  had  from  my  first  years,  by  the  ceaseless  diligence  and 
care  of  my  father  (whom  God  recompense),  been  exercised 
to  the  tongues  and  some  science  as  my  age  would  suffer, 
by  sundry  masters  and  teachers  both  at  home  and  at  the 
schools." 

131 


132  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Playing  on  the  organ ;  reading  Latin  and  Greek,  and  after- 
ward Italian  and  French  and  Hebrew ;  learning  to  fence  and 
to  use  the  sword,  and  to  practice  all  sorts  of  manly  exercise  ; 
studying  until  midnight  for  the  love  of  it  when  he  was  only 
twelve  years  old ;  teaching  his  fellow-students  at  the  uni- 
versity that  "  The  Lady  of  Christ's  College  "  was  a  very  bril- 
liant and  profound  scholar ;  writing  Latin  and  Italian  verses 
which  other  scholars  applauded  and  admired,  —  Milton  came 
to  be  twenty-two  years  old.  Then,  on  one  Christmas  morn- 
ing, he  wrote  a  splendid  ode  "  On  the  Morning  of  Christ's 
Nativity,"  and  proved  himself  a  poet.  If  any  boy  wishes 
to  know  what  a  college  boy  can  do,  let  him  read  and  learn 
some  of  the  fine  stanzas  of  this  ode,  and  then  the  "  Lines 
on  Shakespeare,"  the  first  lines  of  Milton  that  were  ever 
published;  or  the  song,  "On  a  May  Morning,"  and  "At  a 
Solemn  Music,"  —  all  written  by  "The  Lady"  while  he  was 
studying  for  his  degree  at  Christ's  College.  Let  him  read, 
too,  "  Lycidas,"  Milton's  English  poem  on  the  death  of  his 
college  friend,  Edward  King,  who  was  drowned,  and  then 
(if  he  can)  his  Latin  poem,  "The  Epitaph  of  Damon,"  on 
the  death  of  Diodati,  the  dear  friend  of  his  childhood,  with 
"L'AUegro,"  "II  Penseroso,"  and  the  beautiful  pastoral 
drama,  "  The  Masque  of  Comus,"  and  he  will  know  the 
early  work  of  Milton,  and  complete  the  beautiful  picture 
of  his  childhood  and  youth. 

The  second  picture,  the  manhood  of  Milton,  is  quite  a 
different  scene.  It  has  a  somber  background,  and  to  under- 
stand it  we  must  recall  the  time  to  which  it  belongs,  the  dark 
and  anxious  days  of  the  great  struggle  for  liberty  in  the  sev- 
enteenth century.  The  England  of  Chaucer,  fighting  in  the 
French  wars,  was  a  united  country;  the  England  of  Spenser 
and  Shakespeare,  fighting  and  colonizing  and  conquering 
abroad,  was  at  home  an  England  of  intense  loyalty  to  the 


JOHN  MILTON.  133 

Sovereign  Queen  Elizabeth;  but  Milton's  England,  the  Eng- 
land of  the  Stuarts,  had  "fallen  on  evil  days."  Charles  the 
First  was  upholding  "the  divine  right  of  kings,"  and  his  gay 
court  and  cavaliers  were  laughing  at  the  solemn  faces,  the 
sober  manners,  and  the  strait-laced  ideas  of  the  Puritans, 
the  party  of  the  great  people  of  England,  who  claimed  the 
rights  of  civil  liberty  and  religious  liberty,  and  who  put  these 
rights  to  the  test  with  fire  and  sword.  Milton  loved  poetry 
and  music  and  art  and  beauty,  but  he  loved  liberty  better. 
He  was  traveling  in  Italy  when  he  heard  that  there  was  war 
at  home,  and  home  he  hastened,  for  he  said,  "  I  thought  it 
base  to  be  traveling  for  pleasure  abroad  when  my  fellow- 
citizens  were  fighting  for  liberty  at  home."  "Give  me," 
he  said,  too,  "the  liberty  to  know,  to  utter,  and  to  argue 
freely,  above  all  liberties  " ;  and,  again,  "  I  have  determined 
to  lay  up,  as  the  best  treasure  and  solace  of  good  old 
age,  if  God  vouchsafe  it  to  me,  the  honest  liberty  of  free 
speech." 

So  Milton  laid  aside  the  poet's  pen  and  took  up  the 
patriot's  pen,  and  made  it  do  the  duty  of  a  sword.  He 
became  Cromwell's  Latin  secretary,  and  wrote  state  papers 
which  made  the  Commonwealth  respected  as  much  for  schol- 
arship as  for  statesmanship.  He  wrote  the  "  Areopagitica  " 
on  the  "Liberty  of  the  Press";  the  "  Defensio  Populi  Angli- 
cani,"  an  answer  to  Salmasius,  a  French  scholar  living  in 
Holland,  who  attacked  the  English  people  savagely  for 
beheading  their  King.  He  wrote  the  "Iconoclastes,"  or 
the  Image  Breaker,  the  tract  on  Education,  and  a  score  of 
other  Latin  and  English  tracts  and  pamphlets. 

Milton  was  a  partisan,  and  sometimes  a  hot  and  angry 
one.  He  fought  with  all  his  might,  and  he  was  not  always 
particular  in  the  choice  of  his  weapons,  so  that  there  is 
some  of  his  prose  writing  which  we  do  not  value  ;  but  we 


134  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

must  not  forget  that  there  are  parts  of  it  that  are  as  noble 
as  anything  in  English  speech. 

While  Milton  was  writing  and  fighting  for  liberty,  he  was 
married  to  a  seventeen-year-old  girl,  Mary  Powell,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  Royalist.  After  a  month  in  her  husband's  house 
she  found  that  he  did  not  believe  in  liberty  of  speech  quite 
so  much  at  home  as  he  did  abroad,  and  the  duty  of  subjec- 
tion to  her  husband,  and  his  simple  way  of  living  with  the 
boy  pupils  whom  he  had  for  many  years,  were  so  distasteful 
to  her  that  at  last  she  fairly  ran  away  to  her  father  and  stayed 
with  him  for  two  years,  but  came  back  with  her  parents  to 
be  forgiven  and  protected  when  the  Puritans  were  in  power. 
We  shall  have  to  admit  that  Milton  does  not  seem  to  have 
been  lovable.  Of  our  poet  friends,  we  should  probably  have 
enjoyed  Chaucer,  admired  Spenser,  loved  Shakespeare,  and 
respected  Milton  ;  but  his  wife  did  not  love  him,  and  though 
he  married  a  second  and  a  third  time,  he  never  seems  to 
have  had  a  very  happy  or  peaceful  home,  and  his  three 
daughters  complained  bitterly  of  his  treatment,  which  per- 
haps was  a  little  severe.  Yet  we  cannot  help  wishing  that, 
with  Shakespeare's  King  Lear,  among  his  three  daughters 
he  might  have  had  one  like  the  gentle  Cordelia,  v/ho  could 
have  taken  fond  pride  in  his  greatness,  and  overlooked  his 
infirmities  of  temper.  When  he  was  forty-four  years  old  a 
great  shadow  fell  upon  him.  He  became  entirely  blind,  and 
in  this  blindness,  though  still  busily  at  work  for  the  Com- 
monwealth and  the  people,  and  writing  occasional  sonnets 
"To  Cromwell,"  or  "To  Fairfax,"  or  "On  his  Blindness," 
we  leave  him  in  the  second  picture  for  the  third  and  great- 
est one,  the  picture  of  Milton  in  his  old  age. 

"  To  leave  something  so  written  to  after  times  as  they 
should  not  willingly  let  die,"  —  this  was  the  noble  purpose 
of  Milton's  youth.     Put  aside  for  twenty  years,  this  purpose 


JOHN  MILTON.  135 

never  weakened,  and  when  he  was  old  and  blind  and  poor, 
and  threatened  with  persecution  by  the  Royalist  party,  again 
in  power  under  Charles  the  Second,  we  find  him  once  more 
as  Milton  the  poet,  the  writer  of  the  great  epic  of  our  lan- 
guage, the  "Paradise  Lost."  The  Puritan  party  lived  and 
breathed  in  the  spirit  of  religious  reform  ;  so  Milton,  sitting 
down  with  his  daughters  about  him,  put  aside  the  legends 
of  Arthur,  of  which  he  had  thought  in  his  youth,  and  dictated 
to  them,  out  of  the  heart  of  the  Puritan  religion,  the  great 
story  of  the  Fall  of  Man. 

It  is  the  most  lofty  and  majestic  and  sublime  poem  in  our 
language,  and  after  growing  familiar  with  it  we  say,  with 
Walter  Savage  Landor,  "  After  reading  the  '  Paradise  Lost,' 
if  I  take  up  another  poet,  I  seem  to  have  left  the  music  of 
Handel  for  the  music  of  the  street." 

After  seven  years  given  up  to  this  greatest  of  his  poems, 
Milton  still  wrote  on,  —  the  second  and  shorter  epic,  "  Para- 
dise Regained,"  and  the  dramatic  poem,  "Samson,"  —  and 
then,  with  his  great  work  finally  and  well  done,  he  died,  — 

"The  old,  blind  poet," 

"  The  mighty  orb  of  song," 

"Our  great  master  of  the  great  style," 

"  The  mighty  mouthed  inventor  of  harmonies," 
who  "gave  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power,"  and  whose 
"  soul  was  like  a  star  and  dwelt  apart." 


PARADISE    LOST. 


Frotn 
BOOK   I. 

Of  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all  our  woe, 
With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  greater  Man 
Restore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful  seat. 
Sing,  heavenly  Muse,  that  on  the  secret  top 
Of  Oreb,  or  of  Sinai,  didst  inspire 
That  shepherd,  who  first  taught  the  chosen  seed. 
In  the  beginning  how  the  heavens  and  earth 
Rose  out  of  chaos  :  or,  if  Sion  hill 
Delight  thee  more,  and  Siloa's  brook  that  flow'd 
Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God,  I  thence 
Invoke  thy  aid  to  my  adventurous  song. 
That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar 
Above  the  Aonian  mount,  while  it  pursues 
Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme. 
And  chiefly  Thou,  O  Spirit,  that  dost  prefer 
Before  all  temples  the  upright  heart  and  pure, 
Instruct  me,  for  Thou  know'st ;  Thou  from  the  first 
Wast  present,  and  with  mighty  wings  outspread, 

136 


JOHN  MILTON.  137 

Dove-like,  sat'st  brooding  on  the  vast  abyss, 
And  made  it  pregnant :  what  in  me  is  dark 
Illumine ;  what  is  low  raise  and  support ; 
That  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument 
I  may  assert  eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 

Say  first,  for  Heaven  hides  nothing  from  thy  view 
Nor  the  deep  tract  of  Hell ;  say  first,  what  cause 
Moved  our  grand  parents,  in  that  happy  state. 
Favoured  of  Heaven  so  highly,  to  fall  off 
From  their  Creator,  and  transgress  his  will 
For  one  restraint,  lords  of  the  world  besides  ? 
Who  first  seduced  them  to  that  foul  revolt  ? 
Th'  infernal  Serpent ;  he  it  was,  whose  guile, 
Stirr'd  up  with  envy  and  revenge,  deceived 
The  mother  of  mankind,  what  time  his  pride 
Had  cast  him  out  from  Heaven,  with  all  his  host 
Of  rebel  angels,  by  whose  aid,  aspiring 
To  set  himself  in  glory  above  his  peers. 
He  trusted  to  have  equalled  the  Most  High, 
If  he  opposed  ;  and,  with  ambitious  aim 
Against  the  throne  and  monarchy  of  God 
Raised  impious  war  in  Heaven,  and  battle  proud, 
With  vain  attempt.      Him  the  Almighty  Power 
Hurled  headlong  flaming  from  the  ethereal  sky. 
With  hideous  ruin  and  combustion,  down 
To  bottomless  perdition,  there  to  dwell 
In  adamantine  chains  and  penal  fire, 
Who  durst  defy  the  Omnipotent  to  arms. 
Nine  times  the  space  that  measures  day  and  night 


138  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

To  mortal  men,  he,  with  his  horrid  crew. 

Lay  vanquished,  rolling  in  the  fiery  gulf, 

Confounded,  though  immortal :  but  his  doom 

Reserved  him  to  more  wrath ;  for  now  the  thought 

Both  of  lost  happiness  and  lasting  pain 

Torments  him  :  round  he  throws  his  baleful  eyes. 

That  witnessed  huge  affliction  and  dismay, 

Mixed  with  obdurate  pride  and  steadfast  hate : 

At  once,  as  far  as  angel's  ken/  he  views 

The  dismal  situation  waste  and  wild  ; 

A  dungeon  horrible  on  all  sides  round 

As  one  great  furnace  flamed,  yet  from  those  flames 

No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible 

Served  only  to  discover  sights  of  woe, 

Regions  of  sorrow,  doleful  shades,  where  peace 

And  rest  can  never  dwell,  hope  never  comes 

That  comes  to  all ;  but  torture  without  end 

Still  urges,  and  a  fiery  deluge,  fed 

With  ever-burning  sulphur  unconsumed: 

Such  place  eternal  Justice  had  prepared 

For  those  rebellious  ;  here  their  prison  ordained 

In  utter  darkness,  and  their  portion  set 

As  far  removed  from  God  and  light  of  Heaven, 

As  from  the  centre  thrice  to  the  utmost  pole. 

Oh,  how  unlike  the  place  from  whence  they  fell ! 

There  the  companions  of  his  fall,  o'erwhelmed 

With  floods  and  whirlwinds  of  tempestuous  fire, 

He  soon  discerns,  and  weltering  by  his  side 

One  next  himself  in  power,  and  next  in  crime, 

Long  after  known  in  Palestine,  and  named 


JOHN  MILTON.  139 

Beelzebub.     To  whom  the  Arch-Enemy, 

And  thence  in  Heaven  called  Satan,  with  bold  words 

Breaking  the  horrid  silence  thus  began  :  — 

"If  thou  beest  he  ;  but  oh,  how  fallen  !  how  changed 
From  him,  who  in  the  happy  realms  of  light, 
Clothed  with  transcendent  brightness,  didst  outshine 
Myriads  though  bright !     If  he  whom  mutual  league. 
United  thoughts  and  counsels,  equal  hope 
And  hazard  in  the  glorious  enterprise. 
Joined  with  me  once,  now  misery  hath  joined 
In  equal  ruin  :  into  what  pit  thou  seest 
From  what  height  fallen,  so  much  the  stronger  proved 
He  with  his  thunder :  and  till  then  who  -knew 
The  force  of  those  dire  arms  ?  yet  not  for  those, 
Nor  what  the  potent  victor  in  his  rage 
Can  else  inflict,  do  I  repent  or  change, 
Though  changed  in  outward  lustre,  that  fix'd  mind. 
And  high  disdain  from  sense  of  injured  merit, 
That  with  the  mightiest  raised  me  to  contend, 
And  to  the  fierce  contention  brought  along 
Innumerable  force  of  spirits  armed, 
That  durst  dislike  his  reign,  and  me  preferring, 
His  utmost  power  with  adverse  power  opposed 
In  dubious  battle  on  the  plains  of  Heaven, 
And  shook  his  throne.     What  though  the  field  be  lost  .■' 
All  is  not  lost  ;  the  unconquerable  will, 
And  study  of  revenge,  immortal  hate, 
And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield, 
And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome ; 
That  glory  never  shall  his  wrath  or  might 


140  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Extort  from  me.     To  bow  and  sue  for  grace 
With  suppliant  knee,  and  deify  his  power, 
Who  from  the  terror  of  this  arm  so  late 
Doubted  his  empire ;  that  were  low  indeed, 
That  were  an  ignominy  and  shame  beneath 
This  downfall ;  since  by  fate  the  strength  of  gods 
And  this  empyreal  substance,  cannot  fail ; 
Since,  through  experience  of  this  great  event. 
In  arms  not  worse,  in  foresight  much  advanced, 
We  may  with  more  successful  hope  resolve 
To  wage  by  force  or  guile  eternal  war, 
Irreconcilable  to  our  grand  foe, 
Who  now  triumphs,  and  in  the  excess  of  joy 
Sole  reigning  holds  the  tyranny  of  Heaven." 

From 
BOOK   II. 

High  on  a  throne  of  a  royal  state,  which  far 

Outshone  the  wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind, 

Or  where  the  gorgeous  East,  with  richest  hand. 

Showers  on  her  kings  barbaric  pearl  and  gold, 

Satan  exalted  sat,  by  merit  raised 

To  that  bad  eminence :  and  from  despair 

Thus  high  uplifted  beyond  hope,  aspires 

Beyond  thus  high,  insatiate  to  pursue 

Vain  war  with  Heaven,  and,  by  success  untaught 

His  proud  imaginations  thus  display'd  : 

"  Powers  and  dominions,  deities  of  Heaven  ! 
For  since  no  deep  within  her  gulf  can  hold 


JOHN  MILTON.  141 

Immortal  vigour,  though  oppressed  and  fallen, 

I  give  not  Heaven  for  lost  :  From  this  descent 

Celestial  virtues  rising,  will  appear 

More  glorious  and  more  dread  than  from  no  fall, 

And  trust  themselves  to  fear  no  second  fate. 

Me,  though  just  right,  and  the  fix'd  laws  of  Heaven, 

Did  first  create  your  leader ;  next,  free  choice, 

With  what  besides,  in  counsel  or  in  fight. 

Hath  been  achieved  of  merit,  yet  this  loss. 

Thus  far  at  least  recover'd,  hath  much  more 

Establish'd  in  a  safe  unenvied  throne 

Yielded  with  full  consent.     The  happier  state 

In  Heaven,  which  follows  dignity,  might  draw 

Envy  from  each  inferior;  but  who  here 

Will  envy  whom  the  highest  place  exposes 

Foremost  to  stand  against  the  Thunderer's  aim 

Your  bulwark  ;  and  condemns  to  greatest  share 

Of  endless  pain  }     Where  there  is  then  no  good 

For  which  to  strive,  no  strife  can  grow  up  there 

From  faction ;  for  none  sure  will  claim  in  Hell 

Precedence ;  none,  whose  portion  is  so  small 

Of  present  pain,  that  with  ambitious  mind 

Will  covet  more.     With  this  advantage  then 

To  union,  and  firm  faith,  and  firm  accord. 

More  than  can  be  in  Heaven,  we  now  return 

To  claim  our  just  inheritance  of  old, 

Surer  to  prosper  than  prosperity 

Could  have  assured  us  ;  and,  by  what  best  way. 

Whether  of  open  war,  or  covert  guile,  , 

We  now  debate  :  who  can  advise,  may  spe'^k." 


142  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

From 
BOOK   V. 

"  These  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of  good, 
Almighty  !     Thine  this  universal  frame, 
Thus  wondrous  fair ;  thyself  how  wondrous  then, 
Unspeakable !  who  sitt'st  above  these  heavens. 
To  us  invisible,  or  dimly  seen 
In  these  thy  lowest  works ;  yet  these  declare 
The  goodness  beyond  thought,  and  power  divine. 
Speak,  ye  who  best  can  tell,  ye  sons  of  light. 
Angels ;  for  ye  behold  him  and  with  songs 
And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  night, 
Circle  his  throne  rejoicing;  ye  in  Heaven, 
On  earth  join  all  ye  creatures  to  extol 
Him  first,  him  last,  him  midst  and  without  end. 
Fairest  of  stars,  last  in  the  train  of  night. 
If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawn, 
Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crown'st  the  smiling  morn 
With  thy  bright  circlet,  praise  him  in  thy  sphere. 
While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 
Thou  sun,  of  this  great  world  both  eye  and  soul. 
Acknowledge  him  thy  greater,  sound  his  praise 
In  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climb'st. 
And  when  high  noon  hast  gained,  and  when  thou  fall'st. 
Moon,  that  now  meet'st  the  orient  sun,  now  fiy'st. 
With  the  fixed  stars,  fixed  in  their  orb  that  flies ; 
And  ye  five  other  wandering  fires,  that  move 
In  mystic  dance  not  without  song,  resound 
His  praise,  who  out  of  darkness  called  up  light. 


JOHN  MILTON.  143 

Air,  and  ye  elements,  the  eldest  birth 

Of  nature's  womb,  that  in  quaternion  run 

Perpetual  circle,  multiform  ;  and  mix 

And  nourish  all  things  ;  let  your  ceaseless  change 

Vary  to  our  great  Maker  still  new  praise. 

Ye  mists  and  exhalations,  that  now  rise 

From  hill  or  steaming  lake,  dusky  or  gray, 

Till  the  sun  paint  your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, 

In  honour  to  the  world's  great  Author  rise ; 

Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  the  uncoloured  sky. 

Or  wet  the  thirsty  earth  with  falling  showers. 

Rising  or  falling  still  advance  his  praise. 

His  praise,  ye  winds,  that  from  four  quarters  blow. 

Breathe  soft  or  loud ;  and  wave  your  tops,  ye  pines, 

With  every  plant,  in  sign  of  worship  wave. 

Fountains,  and  ye  that  warble  as  ye  flow, 

Melodious  murmurs,  warbling  tune  his  praise. 

Join  voices,  all  ye  living  souls ;  ye  birds. 

That  singing  up  to  Heaven-gate  ascend, 

Bear  on  your  wings  and  in  your  notes  his  praise. 

Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk 

The  earth,  and  stately  tread,  or  lowly  creep ; 

Witness  if  I  be  silent,  morn  or  even. 

To  hill  or  valley,  fountain  or  fresh  shade, 

Made  vocal  by  my  song,  and  taught  his  praise. 

Hail,  universal  Lord  !  be  bounteous  still 

To  give  us  only  good;  and  if  the  night 

Have  gathered  aught  of  evil  or  concealed. 

Disperse  it,  as  now  light  dispels  the  dark." 


144  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Front 
BOOK   XI. 

"  Oh,  unexpected  stroke,  worse  than  of  death ! 
Must  I  thus  leave  thee.  Paradise  ?  thus  leave 
Thee,  native  soil,  these  happy  walks  and  shades, 
Fit  haunt  of  gods  ?  where  I  had  hope  to  spend. 
Quiet,  though  sad,  the  respite  of  that  day 
That  must  be  mortal  to  us  both  ?     O  flowers, 
That  never  will  in  other  climate  grow. 
My  early  visitation,  and  my  last 
At  even,  which  I  bred  up  with  tender  hand 
From  the  first  opening  bud,  and  gave  ye  names  ; 
Who  now  shall  rear  ye  to  the  sun,  or  rank 
Your  tribes,  and  water  from  the  ambrosial  fount  ? 
Thee  lastly,  nuptial  bower,  by  me  adorned. 
With  what  to  sight  or  smell  was  sweet ;  from  thee 
How  shall  I  part,  and  whither  wander  down 
Into  a  lower  world,  to  this  obscure 
And  wild  ?  how  shall  we  breathe  in  other  air 
Less  pure,  accustomed  to  immortal  fruits  ?  " 

From 
BOOK   XII. 

Descended,  Adam  to  the  bower  where  Eve 
Lay  sleeping,  ran  before,  but  found  her  waked ; 
And  thus  with  words  not  sad  she  him  received  : 

"  Whence  thou  return'st,  and  whither  went'st,  I  know ; 
For  God  is  also  in  sleep;  and  dreams  advise, 


JOHN  MILTON.  145 

Which  he  hath  sent  propitious,  some  great  good 

Presaging,  since,  with  sorrow  and  heart's  distress, 

Wearied  I  fell  asleep  :  but  now  lead  on ; 

In  me  is  no  delay ;  with  thee  to  go, 

Is  to  stay  here  ;  without  thee  here  to  stay, 

Is  to  go  hence  unwilling  ;  thou  to  me 

Art  all  things  under  Heaven,  all  places  thou. 

Who  for  my  wilful  crime  art  banished  hence. 

This  further  consolation,  yet  secure, 

I  carry  hence ;  though  all  by  me  is  lost, 

Such  favour  I,  unworthy,  am  vouchsafed. 

By  me  the  promised  Seed  shall  all  restore !  " 

So  spake  our  mother  Eve ;  and  Adam  heard. 
Well  pleased,  but  answered  not ;  for  now,  too  nigh 
The  archangel  stood ;  and  from  the  other  hill 
To  their  fixed  station,  all  in  bright  array. 
The  cherubim  descended ;  on  the  ground, 
Gliding  meteorous,  as  evening  mist. 
Risen  from  a  river,  o'er  the  marish  glides. 
And  gathers  ground  fast  at  the  labourer's  heel, 
Homeward  returning.     High  in  front  advanced. 
The  brandished  sword  of  God  before  them  blazed. 
Fierce  as  a  comet,  which  with  torrid  heat, 
And  vapour  as  the  Lybian  air  adust. 
Began  to  parch  that  temperate  clime ;  whereat. 
In  either  hand  the  hastening  angel  caught 
Our  lingering  parents,  and  to  the  eastern  gate 
Led  them  direct,  and  down  the  cliff  as  fast 
To  the  subjected  plain  ;  then  disappeared. 
They,  looking  back,  all  the  eastern  side  beheld 


146  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Of  Paradise,  so  late  their  happy  seat, 
Waved  over  by  that  flaming  brand ;  the  gate, 
With  dreadful  faces  thronged,  and  fiery  arms  : 
Some  natural  tears  they  dropped,  but  wiped  them  soon 
The  world  was  all  before  them,  where  to  choose 
Their  place  of  rest,  and  Providence  their  guide : 
They,  hand  in  hand,  with  wandering  steps  and  slow. 
Through  Eden  took  their  solitary  way. 


ON   THE   MORNING   OF   CHRIST'S    NATIVITY. 


This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn. 
Wherein  the  Son  of  Heaven's  eternal  King, 
Of  wedded  maid,  and  virgin  mother  born. 
Our  great  redemption  from  above  did  bring ; 
For  so  the  holy  sages  once  did  sing. 

That  he  our  deadly  forfeit  should  release. 
And  with  his  Father  work  us  a  perpetual  peace. 

II. 

That  glorious  form,  that  light  unsufferable, 
And  that  far-beaming  blaze  of  majesty 
Wherewith  he  wont  at  Heaven's  high  council-table 
To  sit  the  midst  of  Trinal  Unity, 
He  laid  aside ;  and  here  with  us  to  be. 

Forsook  the  courts  of  everlasting  day. 
And  chose  with  us  a  darksome  house  of  mortal  clay. 


JOHN  MILTON.  147 


III. 


Say,  heavenly  muse,  shall  not  thy  sacred  vein 

Afford  a  present  to  the  Infant-God  ? 

Hast  thou  no  verse,  no  hymn,  or  solemn  strain. 

To  welcome  him  to  this  his  new  abode, 

Now  while  the  Heaven,  by  the  sun's  team  untrod, 

Hath  took  no  print  of  the  approaching  light, 
And   all   the  spangled  host  keep  watch  in  squadrons 
bright  ? 


IV. 


See  how  from  far  upon  the  eastern  road 

The  star-led  wizards  haste  with  odours  sweet : 

Oh,  run,  prevent  them  with  thy  humble  ode. 

And  lay  it  lowly  at  his  blessed  feet ; 

Have  thou  the  honour  first  thy  Lord  to  greet, 

And  join  thy  voice  unto  the  angel  quire, 
From  out  his  secret  altar  touched  with  hallowed  fire. 

The  Hymn. 

I. 

It  was  the  winter  wild, 
While  the  Heaven-born  child 

All  meanly  wrapped  in  the  rude  manger  lies : 
Nature,  in  awe  to  him. 
Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim. 

With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize : 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  paramour. 


148  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

II. 
Only  with  speeches  fair 
She  wooes  the  gentle  air 

To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent  snow, 
And  on  her  naked  shame, 
Pollute  with  sinful  blame, 

The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to  throw. 
Confounded,  that  her  Maker's  eyes 
Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deformities. 

III. 
But  he,  her  fears  to  cease. 
Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace ; 

She,  crowned  with  olive  green,  came  softly  sliding 
Down  through  the  turning  sphere 
His  ready  harbinger. 

With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds  dividing, 
And  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand. 
She  strikes  an  universal  peace  through  sea  and  land. 

IV. 

No  war,  or  battle's  sound. 
Was  heard  the  world  around  : 

The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  up  hung : 
The  hooked  chariot  stood. 
Unstained  with  hostile  blood ; 

The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng. 
And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye. 
As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovran  Lord  was  by. 


JOHN  MILTON.  149 

V. 

But  peaceful  was  the  night 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 

His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began  : 
The  winds  with  wonder  whist 
Smoothly  the  waters  kissed, 

Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean, 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 
While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed  wave. 

VI. 

The  stars  with  deep  amaze 
Stand  fixed  in  stedfast  gaze. 

Bending  one  way  their  precious  influence, 
And  will  not  take  their  flight, 
For  all  the  morning  light, 

Or  Lucifer  that  often  warned  them  thence ; 
But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow. 
Until  their  Lord  himself  bespake,  and  bid  them  go. 

VII. 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room. 

The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed, 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame. 
As  his  inferior  flame 

The  new  enlightened  world  no  more  should  need ; 
He  saw  a  greater  sun  appear 
Than  his  bright  throne,  or  burning  axletree,  could  bear. 


150  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


VIII. 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn, 
Or  e'er  the  point  of  dawn, 

Sat  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row; 
Full  little  thought  they  then, 
That  the  mighty  Pan 

Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below ; 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep. 
Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busy  keep. 

IX. 

When  such  music  sweet 

Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet. 

As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  strook ; 
Divinely-warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise, 

As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took : 
The  air,  such  pleasure  loth  to  lose, 
With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each  heavenly  close. 

X. 

Nature  that  heard  such  sound, 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 

Of  Cynthia's  seat,  the  airy  region  thrilling, 
Now  was  almost  won 
To  think  her  part  was  done. 

And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last  fulfilling ; 
She  knew  such  harmony  alone 
Could  hold  all  heaven  and  earth  in  happier  union. 


JOHN  MILTON.  151 


XI. 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 
A  globe  of  circular  light, 

That  with  long  beams  the  shame-faced  night  arrayed  ; 
The  helmed  cherubim, 
And  sworded  seraphim, 

Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings  displayed, 
Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  quire. 
With  unexpressive  notes  to  Heaven's  new-born  Heir. 


XII. 

Such  music  (as  't  is  said) 
Before  was  never  made. 

But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning  sung, 
While  the  Creator  great 
His  constellations  set. 

And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges  hung, 
And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep. 
And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oolzy  channel  keep. 

XIII. 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres, 
Once  bless  our  human  ears 

(If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so), 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time. 

And  let  the  bass  of  Heaven's  deep  organ  blow. 
And  with  your  ninefold  harmony 
Make  up  full  concert  to  the  angelic  symphony. 


152  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

XIV. 

For  if  such  holy  song 
Enwrap  our  fancy  long, 

Time  will  run  back,  and  fetch  the  age  of  gold, 
And  speckled  Vanity 
Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 

And  leprous  Sin  will  melt  from  earthly  mould, 
And  Hell  itself  will  pass  away, 
And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering  day. 

XV. 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men, 

Orbed  in  a  rainbow;  and  like  glories  wearing 
Mercy  will  sit  between. 
Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 

With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down  steering, 
And  Heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 
Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  palace  hall. 

XVI. 

But  wisest  Fate  says  no. 
This  must  not  yet  be  so ; 

The  babe  lies  yet  in  smiling  infancy, 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  redeem  our  loss  ; 

So  both  himself  and  us  to  glorify : 
Yet  first  to  those  ychained  in  sleep. 
The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder  through  the 
deep. 


JOHN  MILTON.  153 

XVII. 

With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang, 

While  the  red  fire  and  smouldering  clouds  out  brake  : 
The  aged  earth  aghast, 
With  terror  of  that  blast, 

Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  centre  shake ; 
When  at  the  world's  last  session, 
The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall  spread  his  throne. 

XVIII. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss 
Full  and  perfect  is. 

But  now  begins  ;  for,  from  this  happy  day, 
The  old  Dragon,  underground 
In  straiter  limits  bound, 

Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway, 
And  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail. 
Swinges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

XIX. 

The  oracles  are  dumb, 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 

Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiving. 
Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine. 

With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving. 
No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell. 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 


154  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

XX. 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er, 
And  the  resounding  shore, 

A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament ; 
From  haunted  spring,  and  dale 
Edged  with  poplar  pale, 

The  parting  genius  is  with  sighing  sent ; 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn 
The  nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled  thickets  mourn. 

XXI. 

In  consecrated  earth. 
And  on  the  holy  hearth. 

The  Lars  and  Lemures  moan  with  midnight  plaint ; 
In  urns,  and  altars  round, 
A  drear  and  dying  sound 

Affrights  the  Flamens  at  their  service  quaint ; 
And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 
While  each  peculiar  power  foregoes  his  wonted  seat. 

XXII. 

Peor  and  Baalim 

Forsake  their  temples  dim, 

With  that  twice  battered  god  of  Palestine ; 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both, 

Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  shine ; 
The  Lybic  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn, 
In  vain    the   Tyrian   maids   their  wounded    Thammuz 
mourn. 


JOHN  MILTON.  155 

XXIII. 

And  sullen  Moloch,  fled, 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 

His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue ; 
In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 
They  call  the  grisly  king, 

In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue ; 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
Isis,  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis,  haste, 

XXIV. 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 

In  Memphian  grove  or  green. 

Trampling  the  unshowered  grass  with  lowings  loud  : 
Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 
Within  his  sacred  chest ; 

Nought  but  profoundest  hell  can  be  his  shroud ; 
In  vain  with  timbrelled  anthems  dark 
The  sable-stoled  sorcerers  bear  his  worshipped  ark. 

XXV. 

He  feels  from  Juda's  land 
The  dreaded  Infant's  hand. 

The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyn  ; 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside 
Longer  dare  abide. 

Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine : 
Our  Babe,  to  show  his  Godhead  true, 
Can  in  his  swaddling  bands  control  the  damned  crew. 


156  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

XXVI, 

So  when  the  sun  in  bed, 
Curtained  with  cloudyred, 

Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave, 
The  flocking  shadows  pale 
Troop  to  the  infernal  jail, 

Each  fettered  ghost  slips  to  his  several  grave. 
And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 

Fly   after   the   night-steeds,   leaving  their  moon-loved 
maze. 

xxvii. 

But  see,  the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest. 

Time  is  our  tedious  song  should  here  have  ending : 
Heaven's  youngest  teemed  star 
Hath  fixed  her  polished  car, 

Her  sleeping  Lord  with  handmaid  lamp  attending : 
And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 
Bright-harnessed  angels  sit  in  order  serviceable. 


From 
THE   MASQUE   OF   COMUS. 

Song  of  the  Lady  wandering  in  the  Enchanted  Wood,  where 
she  has  lost  her  two  Brothers. 

Song. 

Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that  liv'st  unseen 
Within  thy  airy  shell. 


JOHN  MILTON  157 

By  slow  Meander's  margent  green, 
And  in  the  violet-embroidered  vale, 

Where  the  love-lorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourneth  well; 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair 

That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are  ? 
Oh  !  if  thou  have 

Hid  them  in  some  flowery  cave, 

Tell  me  but  where, 
Sweet  queen  of  parley,  daughter  of  the  sphere. 
So  mayst  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies, 
And  give  resounding  grace  to  all  Heaven's  harmonies. 

The  Elder  Brother  seeking  his  Sister  in  the  Enchanted  Wood. 

Peace,  brother !  be  not  over-exquisite 
To  cast  the  fashion  of  uncertain  evils ; 
For,  grant  they  be  so,  while  they  rest  unknown, 
What  need  a  man  forestall  his  date  of  grief, 
And  run  to  meet  what  he  would  most  avoid  ? 
Or  if  they  be  but  false  alarms  of  fear. 
How  bitter  is  such  self-delusion  ! 
I  do  not  think  my  sister  so  to  seek. 
Or  so  unprincipled  in  virtue's  book. 
And  the  sweet  peace  that  goodness  bosoms  ever, 
As  that  the  single  want  of  light  and  noise 
(Not  being  in  danger,  as  I  trust  she  is  not) 
Could  stir  the  constant  mood  of  her  calm  thoughts. 
And  put  them  into  misbecoming  plight. 
Virtue  could  see  to  do  what  virtue  would 
By  her  own  radiant  light,  though  sun  and  moon 


158  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Were  in  the  flat  sea  sunk.     And  wisdom's  self 

Oft  seeks  to  sweet  retired  solitude, 

Where,  with  her  best  nurse,  contemplation. 

She  plumes  her  feathers  and  lets  grow  her  wings. 

That,  in  the  various  bustle  of  resort, 

Were  all  too  ruffled,  and  sometimes  impaired. 

He  that  has  light  within  his  own  clear  breast 

May  sit  i'  the  centre,  and  enjoy  bright  day; 

But  he  that  hides  a  dark  soul  and  foul  thoughts, 

Benighted  walks  under  the  midday  sun  ; 

Himself  is  his  own  dungeon. 

The   two  Brothers   and  the  Attendant   Spirit  find  the 
Lady,  spell-bound. 

Spirit. 

What,  have  you  let  the'false  enchanter  'scape } 
Oh  !  ye  mistook,  ye  should  have  snatched  his  wand. 
And  bound  him  fast ;  without  his  rod  reversed, 
And  backward  mutters  of  dissevering  power. 
We  cannot  free  the  lady  that  sits  here 
In  stony  fetters  fixed,  and  motionless ; 
Yet  stay,  be  not  disturbed ;  now  I  methink  me. 
Some  other  means  I  have  which  may  be  used. 
Which  once  of  Meliboeus  old  I  learnt. 
The  soothest  shepherd  that  e'er  piped  on  plains. 

There  is  a  gentle  nymph  not  far  from  hence. 
That  with  moist  curb  sways  the  smooth  Severn  stream, 
Sabrina  is  her  name,  a  virgin  pure  ; 
Whilome  she  was  the  daughter  of  Locrine, 
That  had  the  sceptre  from  his  father  Brute. 


JOHN  MILTON.  159 

She,  guiltless  damsel,  flying  the  mad  pursuit 

Of  her  enraged  stepdame,  Guendolen, 

Commended  her  fair  innocence  to  the  flood, 

That  stay'd  her  flight  with  his  cross-flowing  course. 

The  water  nymphs  that  in  the  bottom  played, 

Held  up  their  pearled  wrists  and  took  her  in. 

Bearing  her  straight  to  aged  Nereus'  hall, 

Who,  piteous  of  our  woes,  reared  her  lank  head. 

And  gave  her  to  his  daughters  to  embathe 

In  nectared  lavers  strewed  with  asphodel. 

And  through  the  porch  and  inlet  of  each  sense 

Dropped  in  ambrosial  oils  till  she  revived. 

And  underwent  a  quick  immortal  change. 

Made  goddess  of  the  river :  still  she  retains 

Her  maiden  gentleness,  and  oft  at  eve 

Visits  the  herds  along  the  twilight  meadows. 

Helping  all  urchin  blasts,  and  ill-luck  signs 

That  the  shrewd  meddling  elf  delights  to  make. 

Which  she  with  precious  vialled  liquors  heals ; 

For  which  the  shepherds  at  their  festivals 

Carol  her  goodness  loud  in  rustic  lays. 

And  throw  sweet  garland  wreaths  into  her  stream 

Of  pansies,  pinks,  and  gaudy  daffodils. 

And,  as  the  old  swain  said,  she  can  unlock 

The  clasping  charm,  and  thaw  the  numbing  spell. 

If  she  be  right  invoked  in  warbled  song ; 

For  maidenhood  she  loves,  and  will  be  swift 

To  aid  a  virgin,  such  as  was  herself, 

In  hard-besetting  need  :  this  will  I  try, 

And  add  the  power  of  some  adjuring  verse. 


160  twelve  english  poets. 

Song. 
Sabrina  fair, 

Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave, 

In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair ; 

Listen  for  dear  honour's  sake, 

Goddess  of  the  silver  lake. 
Listen  and  save. 
Listen,  and  appear  to  us. 
In  name  of  great  Oceanus ; 
By  the  earth-shaking  Neptune's  mace, 
And  Tethys'  grave  majestic  pace. 
By  hoary  Nereus'  wrinkled  look. 
And  the  Carpathian  wizard's  hook, 
By  scaly  Triton's  winding  shell. 
And  old  soothsaying  Glaucus'  spell. 
By  Leucothea's  lovely  hands. 
And  her  son  that  rules  the  strands, 
By  Thetis'  tinsel-slippered  feet, 
And  the  songs  of  sirens  sweet. 
By  dead  Parthenope's  dear  tomb. 
And  fair  Ligea's  golden  comb, 
Wherewith  she  sits  on  diamond  rocks, 
Sleeking  her  soft  alluring  locks ; 
By  all  the  nymphs  that  nightly  dance 
Upon  thy  streams  with  wily  glance. 
Rise,  rise,  and  heave  thy  rosy  head 
From  thy  coral-paven  bed, 


JOHN  MILTON.  161 

And  bridle  in  thy  headlong  wave, 
Till  thou  our  summons  answered  have. 
Listen,  and  save. 

Sabrina  rises,  attended  by  water-nymphs,  and  sings. 

By  the  rushy-fringed  bank, 
Where  grows  the  willow  and  the  osier  dank, 

My  sliding  chariot  stays, 
Thick  set  with  agate,  and  the  azure  sheen 
Of  turkis  blue,  and  emerald  green. 
That  in  the  channel  strays  ; 
Whilst  from  off  the  waters  fleet 
Thus  I  set  my  printless  feet 
O'er  the  cowslip's  velvet  head, 

That  bends  not  as  I  tread ; 
Gentle  swain,  at  thy  request 
I  am  here. 

Spirit. 

Goddess  dear, 
We  implore  thy  powerful  hand 
To  undo  the  charmed  band 
Of  true  virgin  here  distressed. 
Through  the  force,  and  through  the  wile, 
Of  unblest  enchanter  vile. 

Sabrina. 

Shepherd,  't  is  my  office  best 
To  help  ensnared  chastity: 
Brightest  lady,  look  on  me ; 


162  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Thus  I  sprinkle  on  thy  breast 

Drops,  that  from  my  fountain  pure 

I  have  kept,  of  precious  cure ; 

Thrice  upon  thy  finger's  tip, 

Thrice  upon  thy  rubied  lip ; 

Next  this  marbled  venomed  seat, 

Smeared  with  gums  of  glutinous  heat, 

I  touch  with  chaste  palms  moist  and  cold  : 

Now  the  spell  hath  lost  his  hold ; 

And  I  must  haste,  ere  morning  hour. 

To  wait  in  Amphitrite's  bower. 

Sabrina  descends^  and  the  Lady  rises  out  of  her  seat. 

Spirit. 

Virgin,  daughter  of  Locrine, 
Sprung  of  old  Anchises'  line. 
May  thy  brimmed  waves  for  this 
Their  full  tribute  never  miss 
From  a  thousand  petty  rills. 
That  tumble  down  the  snowy  hills  : 
Summer  drouth,  or  singed  air. 
Never  scorch  thy  tresses  fair. 
Nor  wet  October's  torrent  flood 
Thy  molten  crystal  fill  with  mud : 
May  thy  billows  roll  ashore 
The  beryl,  and  the  golden  ore ; 
May  thy  lofty  head  be  crowned 
With  many  a  tower  and  terrace  round, 
And  here  and  there  thy  banks  upon 
With  groves  of  myrrh  and  cinnamon. 


JOHN  MILTON.  163 

Come,  lady,  while  Heaven  lends  us  grace, 
Let  us  fly  this  cursed  place, 
Lest  the  sorcerer  us  entice 
With  some  other  new  device. 
Not  a  waste  or  needless  sound 
Till  we  come  to  holier  ground  ; 
I  shall  be  your  faithful  guide 
Through  this  gloomy  covert  wide ; 
And  not  many  furlongs  thence 
Is  your  father's  residence. 
Where  this  night  are  met  in  state 
Many  a  friend  to  gratulate 
His  wished  presence  ;  and,  beside, 
All  the  swains  that  near  abide. 
With  jigs  and  rural  dance  resort : 
We  shall  catch  them  at  their  sport ; 
And  our  sudden  coming  there 
Will  double  all  their  mirth  and  cheer. 
Come,  let  us  haste,  the  stars  grow  high, 
But  night  sits  monarch  yet  in  the  mid  sky. 

The  scene  changes,  presenting  Ludlow  town  and  the  President's 

castle.;  then  come  in  country  dancers ;  after  thetn  the 

Attendant  Spirit,  with  the  two  Brothers 

and  the  Lady. 

Song. 

Spirit. 

Back,  shepherds,  back  !  enough  your  play, 
Till  next  sunshine  holiday  : 


164  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Here  be,  without  duck  or  nod, 

Other  trippings  to  be  trod 

Of  lighter  toes,  and  such  court  guise 

As  Mercury  did  first  devise, 

With  the  mincing  Dryades, 

On  the  lawns,  and  on  the  leas. 

This  second  Song  presents  them  to  their  Father  and  Mother. 

Noble  lord,  and  lady  bright, 

I  have  brought  ye  new  delight ; 

Here  behold,  so  goodly  grown. 

Three  fair  branches  of  your  own  ; 

Heaven  hath  timely  tried  their  youth. 

Their  faith,  their  patience,  and  their  truth, 

And  sent  them  here  through  hard  assays 
With  a  crown  of  deathless  praise, 

To  triumph  in  victorious  dance 
O'er  sensual  folly  and  intemperance. 

The  dances  ended,  the  Spirit  epiloguises. 

Spirit. 

To  the  ocean  now  I  fly, 
And  those  happy  climes  that  lie 
Where  day  never  shuts  his  eye. 
Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky : 
There  I  suck  the  liquid  air 
All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 
Of  Hesperus,  and  his  daughters  three, 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree  : 


JOHN  MILTON.  165 

Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowers 
Revels  the  spruce  and  jocund  Spring, 
The  Graces,  and  the  rosy-bosomed  Hours, 
Thither  all  their  bounties  bring  : 
There  eternal  Summer  dwells, 
And  west  winds,  with  musky  wing, 
About  the  cedarn  alleys  fling 
Nard  and  cassia's  balmy  smells. 
Iris  there,  with  humid  bow. 
Waters  the  odorous  banks,  that  blow 
Flowers  of  more  mingled  hue 
Than  her  purfled  scarf  can  shew ; 
And  drenches  with  Elysian  dew 
(List,  mortals,  if  your  ears  be  true) 
Beds  of  hyacinth  and  roses. 
Where  young  Adonis  oft  reposes, 
Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound 
In  slumber  soft,  and  on  the  ground 
Sadly  sits  the  Assyrian  queen  ; 
But  far  above,  in  spangled  sheen. 
Celestial  Cupid,  her  famed  son,  advanced, 
Holds  his  dear  Psyche  sweet  entranced. 
After  her  wandering  labours  long. 
Till  free  consent  the  gods  among 
Make  her  his  eternal  bride. 
And  from  her  fair  unspotted  side 
Two  blissful  twins  are  to  be  born. 
Youth  and  Joy ;  so  Jove  hath  sworn. 

But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done ; 
I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run 


166  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Quickly  to  the  green  earth's  end, 
Where  the  bowed  welkin  slow  doth  bend, 
And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 
To  the  corners  of  the  moon. 

Mortals,  that  would  follow  me, 
Love  Virtue  ;  she  alone  is  free  : 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime ; 
Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her. 


LYCIDAS. 


Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels  !  and  once  more 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude. 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year. 
Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear. 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due  ; 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime. 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer: 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  .''     He  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin  then,  sisters,  of  the  sacred  well. 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring ; 


JOHN  MILTON.  167 

Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 

Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  excuse, 

So  may  some  gentle  Muse 

With  lucky  words  favour  my  destined  urn, 

And,  as  he  passes,  turn 

And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud : 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill. 

Fed  the  same  flock  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill. 

Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn. 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray  fly  winds  her  sultry  horn, 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night. 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose,  at  evening,  bright, 
Toward  Heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  westering  wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 
Tempered  to  the  oat-en  flute ; 
Rough  satyrs  danced,  and  fauns  with  cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long, 
And  old  Damsetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But  oh,  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return  ! 
Thee,  shepherd,  thee  the  woods,  and  desert  caves 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown, 
And  all  their  echoes  mourn. 
The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green, 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen, 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 
Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze, 


1 

168  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear, 

When  first  the  white-thorn  blows; 

Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherds'  ear. 

Where  were  ye,  nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas  ? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep. 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie ; 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high. 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream  : 
Ah  me  !   I  fondly  dream. 

Had  ye  been  there,  for  what  could  that  have  done  ? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore, 
The  Muse  herself  for  her  enchanting  son, 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament. 
When  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar. 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore  ? 

Alas  !  what  boots  it  with  incessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely  slighted  shepherd's  trade. 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse  ? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use. 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair  ? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 
(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds) 
To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days ; 
But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze. 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears. 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.      "  But  not  the  praise," 


JOHN  MILTON.  169 

Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling  ears ; 

"  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 

Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies. 

But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes, 

And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove  ; 

As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 

Of  so  much  fame  in  Heaven  expect  thy  meed." 

O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honoured  flood, 
Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crowned  with  vocal  reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood  : 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds. 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea; 
He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon  winds. 
What  hard  mishap  had  doomed  this  gentle  swain  ? 
And  questioned  every  gust,  of  rugged  wings. 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory : 
They  knew  not  of  his  story ; 
And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings. 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  strayed : 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all  h'er  sisters  played. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark 
Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark. 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow. 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge. 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge, 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe. 


170  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

"  Ah  !  who  hath  reft,"  quoth  he,  "  my  dearest  pledge  ?  " 

Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 

The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake ; 

Two  massy  keys  he  bore,  of  metals  twain 

(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain). 

He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake : 

"  How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young  swain, 

Enow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 

Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold ! 

Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make. 

Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 

And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest; 

Blind  mouths  !  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 

A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learned  aught  else  the  least 

That  to  the  faithful  herdsman's  art  belongs  ! 

What  recks  it  them  ?   What  need  they  ?   They  are  sped  ; 

And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw ; 

The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed. 

But  swollen  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw. 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread : 

Besides  what  the  grim  wolf,  with  privy  paw, 

Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said. 

But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 

Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more." 

Return,  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice  is  past. 
That  shrunk  thy  streams  :  return  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 


JOHN  MILTON.  171 

Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks, 

On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star  sparely  looks. 

Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled  eyes, 

That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honeyed  showers, 

And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 

Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 

The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 

The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet. 

The  glowing  violet. 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine. 

With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 

And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears  : 

Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 

And  daffodillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears. 

To  strow  the  laureate  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 

For  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease. 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise. 

Ah  me !  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 

Wash  far  away,  where  e'er  thy  bones  are  hurled. 

Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

Where  thou,  perhaps,  under  the  whelming  tide 

Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world  ; 

Or  whether  thou  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 

Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old. 

Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  mount 

Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold  ; 

Look  homeward,  angel  now,  and  melt  with  ruth  : 

And,  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep  no  more. 
For  Lycidas  your  sorrow  is  not  dead. 


172  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor ; 

So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed, 

And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 

And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled  ore 

Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky  : 

So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high, 

Through  the  dear  might  of  him  that  walked  the  waves, 

Where  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 

With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves. 

And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song, 

In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 

There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above, 

In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  societies. 

That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move. 

And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 

Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more ; 

Henceforth  thou  art  the  genius  of  the  shore. 

In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 

To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and  rills. 
While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals  gray ; 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills. 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay  : 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills, 
And  now  was  dropped  into  the  western  bay ; 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue  : 
To  morrow  to  fresh  woods,  and  pastures  new. 


SONNETS 


XVI. 

TO   THE   LORD   GENERAL   CROMWELL. 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a  cloud 
Not  of  war  only,  but  detractions  rude, 
Guided  by  faith  and  matchless  fortitude. 
To  peace  and  truth  thy  glorious  way  hast  ploughed, 

And  on  the  neck  of  crowned  fortune  proud 

Hast  reared  God's  trophies,  and  his  work  pursued. 
While  Darwen  stream  with  blood  of  Scots  imbrued. 
And  Dunbar  field  resounds  thy  praises  loud. 

And  Worcester's  laureate  wreath.     Yet  much  remains 
To  conquer  still ;  peace  hath  her  victories 
No  less  renowned  than  war :  new  foes  arise 

Threatening  to  bind  our  souls  with  secular  chains : 
Help  us  to  save  free  conscience  from  the  paw 
Of  hireling  wolves,  whose  gosp*el  is  their  maw. 

XIX. 

ON    HIS    BLINDNESS. 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide ; 

^72, 


174  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide, 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  he,  returning,  chide ; 
"  Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied  ?  " 
I  fondly  ask.     But  Patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts ;  who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best  :  his  state 

Is  kingly ;  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 


V.     JOHN   DRYDEN. 

1631-1700. 

There  is  no  more  interesting  spot  in  England,  of  an  early 
June  morning,  than  the  old  square  of  the  Covent  Garden 
Market,  where  flowers,  dewy  and  fragrant,  and  fresh,  deli- 
cious fruits  are  piled  up  in  splendid  profusion,  and  fill  the  air 
about  with  perfume.  We  are  told  by  Hare,  in  one  of  his 
delightful  "Walks  in  London,"  that  once  on  a  time,  many 
long  years  —  six  hundred  years  —  ago  (a  hundred  years 
before  Chaucer  was  born),  the  fruits  and  the  flowers  grew 
here  in  the  Covent  Garden,  which  was  then  the  Convent 
Garden  of  Westminster  Abbey.  But  the  great  city  grew  up 
and  over  the  old  garden,  and  "the  place  formal  and  quiet, 
where  a  salad  was  cut  for  a  Lady  Abbess  and  flowers  were 
gathered  to  adorn  images,"  came  in  time  to  have  all  the  stir 
and  tumult  and  riot  of  life  and  color  which  belong  to  the 
great  market-places  of  the  world.  If  we  could  have  paid  it 
a  visit  two  hundred  years  ago,  on  one  of  the  June  mornings 
of  the  late  seventeenth  century,  we  should  have  found  the 
marketing  going  on,  and  the  fruits  and  flowers  piled  up  even 
then  knee-deep  against  the  walls  of  Bedford  House,  under 
the  shadow  of  great  trees  which  overhung  them. 

We  should  have  strolled  along  under  the  arcade  or  por- 
tico-walk just  built  by  Inigo  Jones,  and  perhaps  have  gone 
in  to  see  his  new  Church  of  St.  Paul's,  Covent  Garden. 
But,  after  all,  the  great  attraction  then  would  have  been  what 
the  memory  of  it  is  now.  So  we  should  have  hurried  on 
past  the   piazzas   and   the   church   and   the   fruits   and  the 

17s 


176  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

flowers,  to  the  corner  of  Russell  Street  and  Bow  Street,  to 
Will's  Coffee-House,  the  center  of  all  of  the  literary  life  of 
the  day ;  the  gathering-place  of  wits  and  beaux,  of  scholars 
and  courtiers.  There  we  might  perhaps  have  been  admitted 
by  Robin  the  porter,  and  have  met  the  great  Duke  of 
Ormond  and  the  witty  Earls  of  Rochester  and  Dorset,  with 
Davenant  and  Waller  and  Sedley  and  a  dozen  others. 

But  we  should  have  gone,  as  they  did,  hoping  to  see  and 
hear  the  old  potentate  who  reigned  supreme  at  Will's  and 
gave  it  its  fame;  who  had  the  big  chair  by  its  fire  in  winter 
and  the  best  corner  of  the  balcony  in  summer,  — 

"  The  greatest  craftsman  in  English  letters," 

"  Glorious  John," 

"The  Father  of  English  Criticism," 

"The  man  who  found  the  English  language  brick  and  left 

it  marble," 
"  The  First  Poet  of  the  Second  Class," 
"The  noble  and  puissant  Founder  of  the  Age  of  Prose  and 

Reason," 
"  The  man  who  surveyed  and  laid  out  the  whole  estate  of 

modern  English  Prose," 
"The  great  Mr.  Dryden." 

We  have  seen  the  laying  of  the  corner-stones  of  English 
poetry,  the  Narrative  of  Chaucer,  the  Romance  of  Spenser, 
the  Drama  of  Shakespeare,  the  Epic  of  Milton  ;  and  now  for 
a  time  we  leave  the  company  of  these  our  greatest  poets  and 
take  up  with  the  best  society  we  can  find  in  the  last  half  of 
the  seventeenth  century.  When  Dryden  was  born,  in  163 1,  in 
the  little  village  of  Aldwinckle-All-Saints,  in  Northampton- 
shire, Milton  was  only  twenty-three  years  old,  and  Charles 
the  First  was  ruling  over  England.     But  Milton  never  seems 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  Yll 

to  belong  to  the  Stuarts,  and,  indeed,  has  been  called  "  the 
last  of  the  Elizabethans  ";  whereas  Dryden  is  the  representa- 
tive poet  of  his  own  day,  and  championed  its  ideas  and  used 
its  language  and  fought  its  quarrels  with  the  best.  Dryden 
was  the  son  of  a  gentleman  of  some  rank  and  estate,  and  he 
was  sent  when  a  boy  to  Westminster  School,  to  Dr.  Busby 
with  his  famous  little  birch,  and  then  to  Cambridge  Univer- 
sity, where  he  got  into  some  trouble.  Though  he  finally 
took  a  degree,  he  revenged  himself  for  this  trouble  in  his 
favorite  way  —  a  way  which  a  college  boy  in  our  day  would 
think  rather  disloyal  —  by  writing  in  his  own  famous  heroic 
couplets : 

"  Oxford  to  him  a  dearer  name  shall  be 
Than  his  own  mother  University  ; 
Thebes  did  his  green,  unknowing  youth  engage  — 
He  chooses  Athens  in  his  riper  age." 

When  Dryden  was  twenty-four  he  came  to  London  to  be 
secretary  to  one  of  his  kinsmen,  a  sturdy  Puritan,  a  friend 
of  the  Protector,  and  when  Cromwell  died  Dryden  wrote 
an  elegy  on  him  ;  but  in  a  very  few  months  Charles  the 
Second  came  back  from  the  gay  dissipations  of  his  French 
exile  to  rule  in  England,  and  Dryden  quickly  made  his 
peace  by  "  Astrea  Redux,"  —  some  very  flattering  lines  on 
the  return  of  the  king. 

When  he  was  thirty-two  years  old  he  was  married  to  the 
Lady  Elizabeth  Howard.  She  was  without  fortune,  and  he 
was  poor  and  found  that  he  must  write.  Accordingly  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  write  what  would  be  successful  and 
well  paid,  for  he  said,  "  He  who  lives  to  please  must  please, 
to  live."  Unfortunately  for  Dryden,  the  things  which  pleased 
the  king  and  the  court  in  the  times  of  Charles  the  Second, 
"  The  Merry  Monarch,"  were  very  coarse  and  vulgar  plays. 


/ 


i 
17S  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Of  these  Dryden  wrote  twenty-eight,  but  they  are  now  never 
acted  and  seldom  read,  and  so,  in  spite  of  many  fine  passages 
in  them,  we  are  glad  to  take  the  advice  of  the  great  French 
critic,  Monsieur  Taine,  and  "  leave  them  to  the  obscurity 
which  they  deserve."  Dryden  wrote  many  of  these  plays 
in  his  heroic  couplets,  which  he  tried  to  prove  were  more 
classic  and  beautiful  than  the  blank  verse  of  Shakespeare 
and  the  other  Elizabethan  writers,  and  by  so  doing.  Doctor 
Johnson  said,  "  he  tuned  the  numbers  of  English  verse  ";  but 
he  gave  up  the  idea  of  rhyme  in  the  drama  himself  before 
he  died,  and  he  never  made  many  converts  to  it  among  other 
people. 

In  the  prefaces  of  these  plays  he  wrote  such  fine  and 
forcible  prose,  and  gave  such  clever  arguments  in  favor  of 
his  views,  that  the  prefaces  are  often  quoted  when  the  plays 
are  forgotten. 

When  Charles  died  and  James  the  Second,  an  ardent 
Catholic,  came  to  the  throne,  Dryden,  who  had  already 
changed  the  Puritan  for  the  Episcopal  faith,  was  converted 
again,  and  became  a  Catholic  too,  and  not  long  after  was 
made  Poet  Laureate,  as  Spenser,  Daniel,  Jonson,  and  Dave- 
nant  had  been  before  him. 

In  his  day  "  poetical  and  political  squabbles,  petty  intrigues, 
libels,  lampoons,  and  satires  "  kept  all  the  poets  busy,  and 
Dryden  gained  great  fame  by  his  satires  of  "  Absalom  and 
Achitophel,"  written,  it  is  said,  at  the  command  of  Charles 
the  Second,  as  a  weapon  to  fight  the  intrigue  of  the  Earl 
of  Shaftesbury  and  the  young  Duke  of  Monmouth  ;  "  The 
Medal,"  a  second  satire  on  Shaftesbury,  said  to  have  been 
also  suggested  and  handsomely  rewarded  by  the  king ;  and 
the  "Mac  Flecknoe,"  written  to  avenge  himself  on  Shadwell, 
who  had  replied  to  Dryden's  "  Medal  "  in  a  scurrilous  yet 
stinging  poem,  "  The  Medal  of  John  Bayes."     "  The  Religio 


JOHN  DKYDEN.  179 

Laici "  he  wrote  to  explain  his  early  religious  views.  "  The 
Hind  and  the  Panther"  accounts  for  his  second  conver- 
sion, "the  Hind"  representing  the  Roman  Catholic  Church, 
and  "  the  Panther  "  the  Church  of  England.  The  "  Annus 
Mirabilis  "  is  a  description  of  the  notable  year  1666,  with 
its  Dutch  war  and  its  great  fire  of  London. 

Of  his  quarrels  with  Rochester  and  the  drubbing  which 
the  poor  poet  got  in  Rose  Alley ;  and  of  his  squabbles  with 
Settle  and  Shadwell ;  and  of  his  coolness  with  Swift,  to  whom 
he  said,  "  Cousin  Swift,  you  will  never  be  a  poet  "  (as  Milton 
had  said  of  himself,  "  a  good  rhymist,  but  no  poet "),  we 
hear  on  every  side.  It  is  pleasanter  reading  to  turn  to  his 
work  of  translation. 

When  the  English  people  had  still  one  more  change  of 
rulers,  and  William  and  Mary,  the  Protestants,  came  to  the 
throne,  Dryden  lost  his  place  of  Laureate,  with  his  two 
hundred  pounds  salary,  for  he  could  not  change  his  faith 
still  again. 

He  was  poor.  He  had  lost  all  the  court  favor  which  made 
him  brilliant  and  powerful  while  he  was  writing  his  plays, 
and  his  poems,  and  his  "  Essay  on  Dramatic  Poesy,"  and 
the  like ;  but  he  set  himself  vigorously  to  work  to  translate 
the  "  ^neid,"  saying :  "  What  Virgil  wrote  in  the  vigor  of 
his  age,  in  plenty  and  at  ease,  I  have  undertaken  to  translate 
in  my  declining  years,  struggling  with  want,  oppressed  with 
sickness,  curbed  in  my  genius,  liable  to  be  misconstrued  in 
all  I  write."  This  translation,  with  a  book  of  fables,  —  sto- 
ries from  the  early  English  of  Chaucer,  the  Latin  of  Ovid, 
and  the  Italian  of  Boccaccio,  —  was  almost  the  last  work  of 
Dryden.  In  his  forty  years  of  sturdy  labor  he  wrote  pane- 
gyrics, odes  on  public  events,  dramas,  argumentative  poems, 
essays,  prefaces,  prologues  and  epilogues,  satires  literary  and 
political,  translations,  epigrams,  lyrics,  and  odes,  and  his  busy 


180  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

0 

pen  earned  its  honors  by  hard  work.  "  His  talents  were 
like  the  wings  of  an  ostrich,  they  helped  him  to  outrun  the 
rest  of  the  world,  but  they  could  not  make  him  soar." 

A  little  while  before  he  died,  an  old  man  of  nearly  seventy 
years,  he  wrote  his  splendid  "  Ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  Day," 
afterwards  set  to  music  by  the  great  musician,  Handel.  The 
stewards  of  the  musical  festival  came  to  ask  him  to  write  it 
for  the  feast  day  of  their  patron  saint,  to  whom  he  had 
already  dedicated  one  fine  ode,  and  the  story  goes  that  this 
second  ode  was  written  complete  in  twenty-four  hours,  and 
that  Dryden  was  so  pleased  with  it  that  he  said  himself : 
"  It  is  the  greatest  ode  that  has  ever  been  written  in  the 
English  language,"  and  he  added,  "or  that  ever  will  be." 

On  May  Day  in  the  year  1700  Dryden  died,  and  was 
buried  with  honors  in  Westminster  Abbey,  between  Chaucer 
and  Cowley.  Shefifield,  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  had  a 
bust  placed  over  him  in  the  Poets'  Corner,  and  Pope  wrote 
under  it : 

"  This  Sheffield  raised  :  the  sacred  dust  below 
Was  Dryden's  once  —  the  rest  who  does  not  know?" 

In  our  day  we  have  come  to  think  that  we  "  know  the 
rest "  by  seeing  that  Dryden,  if  not  a  very  great  poet  of 
the  first  rank,  was  a  very  great  man  of  letters,  — "  the 
greatest  literary  chief  in  England,  the  veteran  field  marshal 
of  letters,  the  marked  man  of  all  Europe,  and  the  center  of 
the  school  of  wits  who  daily  gathered  around  his  chair  and 
tobacco-pipe  at  Will's." 


SONGS, 


From 
THE   INDIAN    EMPEROR. 

Ah  fading  joy  !   how  quickly  art  thou  past ! 

Yet  we  thy  ruin  haste. 
As  if  the  cares  of  human  life  were  few, 
We  seek  out  new  : 
And  follow  fate,  which  would  too  fast  pursue. 

See,  how  on  every  bough  the  birds  express. 
In  their  sweet  notes,  their  happiness. 
They  all  enjoy,  and  nothing  spare ; 
But  on  their  mother,  Nature,  lay  their  care: 
Why  then  should  man,  the  lord  of  all  below. 
Such  troubles  choose  to  know, 
As  none  of  all  his  subjects  undergo  .-* 

Hark,  hark,  the  waters  fall,  fall,  fall, 
And  with  a  murmuring  sound 
Dash,  dash,  upon  the  ground, 
To  gentle  slumbers  call. 


i8i 


182  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

From 
THE   INDIAN    EMPEROR. 

I  LOOKED  and  saw  within  the  book  of  fate, 

Where  many  days  did  lour, 

When  lo  !  one  happy  hour 
Leaped  up,  and  smiled  to  save  the  sinking  state ; 
A  day  shall  come  when  in  thy  power 

Thy  cruel  foes  shall  be ; 

Then  shall  thy  land  be  free : 

And  thou  in  peace  shall  reign ; 
But  take,  oh  take  that  opportunity. 
Which  once  refused  will  never  come  again. 


Frotn 
THE   MAIDEN   QUEEN. 

I  FEED  a  flame  within,  which  so  torments  me. 
That  it  both  pains  my  heart,  and  yet  contents  me 
'T  is  such  a  pleasing  smart,  and  I  so  love  it. 
That  I  had  rather  die,  than  once  remove  it. 

Yet  he,  for  whom  I  grieve,  shall  never  know  it  ; 
My  tongue  does  not  betray,  nor  my  eyes  show  it. 
Not  a  sigh,  nor  a  tear,  my  pain  discloses, 
But  they  fall  silently,  like  dew  on  roses. 

Thus,  to  prevent  my  love  from  being  cruel, 
My  heart 's  the  sacrifice,  as  't  is  the  fuel : 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  183 

And  while  I  suffer  this  to  give  him  quiet, 
My  faith  rewards  my  love,  though  he  deny  it. 

On  his  eyes  will  I  gaze,  and  there  delight  me: 
Where  I  conceal  my  love  no  frown  can  fright  me  : 
To  be  more  happy,  I  dare  not  aspire; 
Nor  can  I  fall  more  low,  mounting  no  higher. 


From 

AMBOYNA. 

Song  of  the  Sea-Fight. 

Who  ever  saw  a  noble  sight. 

That  never  viewed  a  brave  sea-fight ! 

Hang  up  your  bloody  colours  in  the  air, 

Up  with  your  fights,  and  your  nettings  prepare ; 

Your  merry  mates  cheer,  with  a  lusty  bold  spright, 

Now  each  man  his  brindice,  and  then  to  the  fight. 

St.  George,  St.  George,  we  cry; 

The  shouting  Turks  reply. 

Oh  now  it  begins,  and  the  gunroom  grows  hot. 

Ply  it  with  culverin  and  with  small  shot; 

Hark,  does  it  not  thunder?  no,  'tis  the  guns  roar. 

The  neighbouring  billows  are  turned  into  gore ; 

Now  each  man  must  resolve  to  die, 

For  here  the  coward  cannot  fly. 

Drums  and  trumpets  toll  the  knell, 

And  culverins  the  passing  bell. 


184  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Now,  now  they  grapple,  and  now  board  amain; 
Blow  up  the  hatches,  they  're  off  all  again  : 
Give  them  a  broadside,  the  dice  run  at  all, 
Down  comes  the  mast  and  yard,  and  tacklings  fall; 
She  grows  giddy  now,  like  blind  Fortune's  wheel. 
She  sinks  there,  she  sinks,  she  turns  up  her  keel. 
Who  ever  beheld  so  noble  a  sight, 
As  this  so  brave,  so  bloody  sea-fight ! 


AURENG-ZEBE. 

FroTH 

Act  IV.,  Scene  i. 

When  I  consider  life,  't  is  all  a  cheat. 
Yet,  fooled  with  hope,  men  favor  the  deceit. 
Trust  on  and  think  to-morrow  will  repay  — 
To-morrow  's  falser  than  the  former  day, 
Lies  worse,  and  while  it  says  we  shall  be  blest 
With  some  new  joys,  cuts  off  what  we  possest. 
Strange  cozenage  !    None  would  live  past  years  again, 
Yet  all  hope  pleasure  in  what  yet  remain, 
And  from  the  dregs  of  life  think  to  receive 
What  the  first  sprightly  running  could  not  give. 
I  'm  tired  with  waiting  for  this  chemic  gold 
Which  fools  us  young  and  beggars  us  when  old. 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  185 

ALL    FOR    LOVE. 

From 

Act  I.,  Scene  r. 

Atitony. 

Lie  there,  thou  shadow  of  an  emperor ; 

The  place  thou  pressest  on  thy  mother  earth 

Is  all  thy  empire  now  :  now  it  contains  thee ; 

Some  few  clays  hence,  and  then  't  will  be  too  large. 

When  thou  'rt  contracted  in  thy  narrow  urn. 

Shrunk  to  a  few  cold  ashes  ;  then  Octavia, 

For  Cleopatra  will  not  live  to  see  it, 

Octavia  then  will  have  thee  all  her  own, 

And  bear  thee  in  her  widowed  hand  to  Caesar; 

Caesar  will  weep,  the  crocodile  will  weep 

To  see  his  rival  of  the  universe 

Lie  still  and  peaceful  there.    I  '11  think  no  more  on 't. — 

Give  me  some  music. 


From 
ABSALOM    AND    ACHITOPHEL. 

Character  of  AcJiitophel  {Shaftesbury). 

Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  first ; 
A  name  to  all  succeeding  ages  cursed : 
For  close  designs,  and  crooked  counsel  fit ; 
Sagacious,  bold,  and  turbulent  of  wit; 
Restless,  unfixed  in  principles  and  place; 


186  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

In  power  unpleased,  impatient  of  disgrace: 

A  fiery  soul,  which,  working  out  its  way, 

Fretted  the  pigmy-body  to  decay, 

And  o'er-informed  the  tenement  of  clay. 

A  daring  pilot  in  extremity, 

Pleased  with  the  danger,  when  the  waves  went  high 

He  sought  the  storms;  but  for  a  calm  unfit, 

Would  steer  too  nigh  the  sands  to  boast  his  wit. 

Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied. 

And  thin  partitions  do  their  bounds  divide; 

Else  why  should  he,  with  wealth  and  honour  blest, 

Refuse  his  age  the  needful  hours  of  rest } 

Punish  a  body  which  he  could  not  please; 

Bankrupt  of  life,  yet  prodigal  of  ease } 

*         *         *  * 

In  friendship  false,  implacable  in  hate; 
Resolved  to  ruin  or  to  rule  the  state. 
To  compass  this  the  triple  bond  he  broke; 
The  pillars  of  the  public  safety  shook ; 
And  fitted  Israel  for  a  foreign  yoke. 
Then  seized  with  fear,  yet  still  affecting  fame. 
Usurped  a  patriot's  all-atoning  name. 
So  easy  still  it  proves,  in  factious  times. 
With  public  zeal  to  cancel  private  crimes. 
How  safe  is  treason,  and  how  sacred  ill, 
Where  none  can  sin  against  the  people's  will, 
Where  crowds  can  wink,  and  no  offence  be  known. 
Since  in  another's  guilt  they  find  their  own  ! 
Yet  fame  deserved  no  enemy  can  grudge; 
The  statesman  we  abhor,  but  praise  the  judge. 


JOHN  BR  YD  EN.  187 

From 
MAC   FLECKNOE. 

All  human  things  are  subject  to  decay, 

And  when  fate  summons,  monarchs  must  obey. 

This  Flecknoe  found,  who,  like  Augustus,  young 

Was  called  to  empire,  and  had  governed  long ; 

In  prose  and  verse,  was  owned,  without  dispute, 

Through  all  the  realms  of  Nonsense,  absolute. 

This  aged  prince,  now  flourishing  in  peace, 

And  blessed  with  issue  of  a  large  increase. 

Worn  out  with  business,  did  at  length  debate 

To  settle  the  succession  of  the  state : 

And,  pondering,  which  of  all  his  sons  was  fit 

To  reign,  and  wage  immortal  war  with  wit, 

Cried,  "  'T  is  resolved  ;  for  nature  pleads,  that  he 

Should  only  rule,  who  most  resembles  me. 

Shadwell  alone  my  perfect  image  bears, 

Mature  in  dulness  from  his  tender  years : 

Shadwell  alone,  of  all  my  sons,  is  he. 

Who  stands  confirmed  in  full  stupidity. 

The  rest  to  some  faint  meaning  make  pretence, 

But  Shadwell  never  deviates  into  sense. 

Some  beams  of  wit  on  other  souls  ipay  fall, 

Strike  through,  and  make  a  lucid  interval; 

But  Shadwell's  genuine  night  admits  no  ray, 

His  rising  fogs  prevail  upon  the  day. 

Besides,  his  goodly  fabric  fills  the  eye, 

And  seems  designed  for  thoughtless  majesty: 


188  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Thoughtless  as  monarch  oaks,  that  shade  the  plain, 
And,  spread  in  solemn  state,  supinely  reign." 


Fro7n 
THE   PROLOGUE   TO   THE   TEMPEST. 

As  when  a  tree  's  cut  down,  the  secret  root 

Lives  underground,  and  thence  new  branches  shoot. 

So  from  old  Shakespeare's  honoured  dust  this  day 

Springs  up  and  buds  a  new  reviving  play: 

Shakespeare,  who  (taught  by  none)  did  first  impart 

To  Fletcher  wit,  to  labouring  Jonson  art ; 

He,  monarch-like,  gave  those,  his  subjects,  law. 

And  is  that  Nature  which  they  paint  and  draw. 

Fletcher  reached  that  which  on  his  heights  did  grow. 

Whilst  Jonson  crept,  and  gathered  all  below. 

This  did  his  love,  and  this  his  mirth  digest : 

One  imitates  him  most,  the  other  best. 

If  they  have  since  outwrit  all  other  men, 

'T  is  with  the  drops  which  fell  from  Shakespeare's  pen. 

The  storm  which  vanished  on  the  neighbouring  shore 

Was  taught  by  Shakespeare's  Tempest  first  to  roar. 

That  innocence  and  beauty,  which  did  smile 

In  Fletcher,  grew  on  this  enchanted  isle. 

But  Shakespeare's  magic  could  not  copied  be ; 

Within  that  circle  none  durst  walk  but  he. 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  189 

Under 
MR.   MILTON'S    PICTURE. 

BEFORE    HIS    PARADISE    LOST. 

Three  Poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 
The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed; 
The  next  in  majesty ;  in  both,  the  last. 
The  force  of  nature  could  no  further  go : 
To  make  a  third  she  joined  the  former  two. 


From 
PALAMON    AND    ARCITE, 

OR 

THE    KNIGHT'S    TALE. 

Translated  from   Chaucer. 

Thus  year  by  year  they  pass,  and  day  by  day, 
Till  once,  't  was  on  the  morn  of  cheerful  May, 
The  young  Emilia,  fairer  to  be  seen 
Than  the  fair  lily  on  the  flowery  green, 
More  fresh  than  May  herself  in  blossoms  new 
(F'or  with  the  rosy  colour  strove  her  hue). 
Waked,  as  her  custom  was,  before  the  day. 
To  do  the  observance  due  to  sprightly  May  : 
For  sprightly  May  commands  our  youth  to  keep 
The  vigils  of  her  night,  and  breaks  their  sluggard  sleep ; 


190  TWELVE    ENGLISH  POETS. 

Each  gentle  breast  with  kindly  warmth  she  moves ; 

Inspires  new  flames,  revives  extinguished  loves. 

In  this  remembrance  Emily  ere  day 

Arose,  and  dressed  herself  in  rich  array; 

Fresh  as  the  month,  and  as  the  morning  fair : 

Adown  her  shoulders  fell  her  length  of  hair: 

A  riband  did  the  braided  tresses  bind, 

The  rest  was  loose,  and  wantoned  in  the  wind  : 

Aurora  had  biit  newly  chased  the  night. 

And  purpled  o'er  the  sky  with  blushing  light. 

When  to  the  garden  walk  she  took  her  way. 

To  sport  and  trip  along  in  cool  of  day, 

And  offer  maiden  vows  in  honour  of  the  May. 

At  every  turn,  she  made  a  little  stand. 
And  thrust  among  the  thorns  her  lily  hand 
To  draw  the  rose,  and  every  rose  she  drew 
She  shook  the  stalk,  and  brushed  away  the  dew ; 
Then  party-coloured  flowers  of  white  and  red 
She  wove,  to  make  a  garland  for  her  head : 
This  done,  she  sung  and  carolled  out  so  clear. 
That  men  and  angels  might  rejoice  to  hear: 
Even  wondering  Philomel  forgot  to  sing ; 
And  learned  from  her  to  welcome  in  the  spring. 


TE   DEUM. 


Thee,  Sovereign  God,  our  grateful  accents  praise ; 
We  own  Thee  Lord,  and  bless  Thy  wondrous  ways ; 
To  Thee,  Eternal  Father,  earth's  whole  frame 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  191 

With  loudest  trumpets  sounds  immortal  fame. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts !  for  Thee  the  heavenly  powers 

With  sounding  anthems  fill  the  vaulted  towers. 

Thy  Cherubims  thrice  Holy,  Holy,  Holy  cry ; 

Thrice  Holy  all  the  Seraphims  reply, 

And  thrice  returning  echoes  endless  songs  supply. 

Both  heaven  and  earth  Thy  majesty  display; 

They  owe  their  beauty  to  Thy  glorious  ray. 

Thy  praises  fill  the  loud  apostles'  quire  : 

The  train  of  prophets  in  the  song  conspire. 

Legions  of  Martyrs  in  the  chorus  shine. 

And  vocal  blood  with  vocal  music  join. 

By  these  Thy  church,  inspired  by  heavenly  art, 

Around  the  world  maintains  a  second  part. 

And  tunes  her  sweetest  notes,  O  God  to  Thee, 

The  Father  of  unbounded  majesty ; 

The  Son,  adored  co-partner  of  Thy  seat, 

And  equal  everlasting  Paraclete. 

Thou  King  of  Glory,  Christ  of  the  Most  High, 

Thou  co-eternal  filial  Deity  ; 

Thou  who,  to  save  the  world's  impending  doom, 

Vouchsafedst  to  dwell  within  a  Virgin's  womb ; 

Old  tyrant  Death  disarmed,  before  Thee  flew 

The  bolts  of  heaven,  and  back  the  foldings  drew, 

To  give  access,  and  make  Thy  faithful  way ; 

From  God's  right  hand  Thy  filial  beams  display. 

Thou  art  to  judge  the  living  and  the  dead  ; 

Then  spare  those  souls  for  whom  Thy  veins  have  bled. 

O  take  us  up  amongst  Thy  blessed  above, 

To  share  with  them  Thy  everlasting  love. 


192  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Preserve,  O  Lord  !  Thy  people,  and  enhance 
Thy  blessing  on  Thine  own  inheritance. 
For  ever  raise  their  hearts,  and  rule  their  ways, 
Each  day  we  bless  Thee,  and  proclaim  Thy  praise ; 
No  age  shall  fail  to  celebrate  Thy  name, 
No  hour  neglect  Thy  everlasting  fame. 
Preserve  our  souls,  O  Lord,  this  day  from  ill ; 
Have  mercy  on  us,  Lord,  have  mercy  still : 
As  we  have  hoped,  do  Thou  reward  our  pain ; 
We  've  hoped  in  Thee,  let  not  our  hope  be  vain. 


EPISTLE   TO    CONGREVE. 

To  my  dear  friend  Mr.  Congreve,  on  his  comedy  called 
''The  Double  Dealer.'' 

Well  then,  the  promised  hour  is  come  at  last, 

The  present  age  of  wit  obscures  the  past : 

Strong  were  our  sires,  and  as  they  fought  they  writ, 

Conquering  with  force  of  arms,  and  dint  of  wit : 

Theirs  was  the  giant  race,  before  the  flood  : 

And  thus,  when  Charles  returned,  our  empire  stood. 

Like  Janus  he  the  stubborn  soil  manured. 

With  rules  of  husbandry  the  rankness  cured  ; 

Tamed  us  to  manners,  when  the  stage  was  rude  ; 

And  boisterous  English  wit  with  art  endued. 

Our  age  was  cultivated  thus  at  length  ; 

But  what  we  gained  in  skill  we  lost  in  strength. 

Our  builders  were  with  want  of  genius  cursed; 

The  second  temple  was  not  like  the  first : 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  193 

Till  you,  the  best  Vitruvius,  come  at  length  ; 

Our  beauties  equal,  but  excel  our  strength. 

Firm  Doric  pillars  found  your  solid  base  : 

The  fair  Corinthian  crowns  the  higher  space: 

Thus  all  below  is  strength,  and  all  above  is  grace. 

In  easy  dialogue  is  Fletcher's  praise ; 

He  moved  the  mind,  but  had  not  power  to  raise. 

Great  Jonson  did  by  strength  of  judgment  please; 

Yet,  doubling  Fletcher's  force,  he  wants  his  ease. 

In  differing  talents  both  adorned  their  age ; 

One  for  the  study,  t'  other  for  the  stage. 

But  both  to  Congreve  justly  shall  submit, 

One  matched  in  judgment,  both  o'ermatched  in  wit. 

In  him  all  beauties  of  this  age  we  see, 

Etherege  his  courtship,  Southern's  purity, 

The  satire,  wit,  and  strength  of  manly  Wycherley. 

All  this  in  blooming  youth  you  have  achieved  : 

Nor  are  your  foiled  contemporaries  grieved. 

So  much  the  sweetness  of  your  manners  move, 

We  cannot  envy  you,  because  we  love. 

Fabius  might  joy  in  Scipio,  when  he  saw 

A  beardless  consul  made  against  the  law, 

And  join  his  suffrage  to  the  votes  of  Rome, 

Though  he  with  Hannibal  was  overcome. 

Thus  old  Romano  bowed  to  Raphael's  fame, 

And  scholar  to  the  youth  he  taught  became. 

Oh  that  your  brows  my  laurel  had  sustained  ! 

Well  had  I  been  deposed,  if  you  had  reigned : 

The  father  had  descended  for  the  son  ; 

For  only  you  are  lineal  to  the  throne. 


194  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Thus,  when  the  state  one  Edward  did  depose, 

A  greater  Edward  in  his  room  arose. 

But  now,  not  I,  but  poetry  is  cursed  ; 

For  Tom  the  second  reigns  like  Tom  the  first. 

But  let  them  not  mistake  my  patron's  part, 

Nor  call  his  charity  their  own  desert. 

Yet  this  I  prophesy  ;  thou  shalt  be  seen, 

(Though  with  some  short  parenthesis  between) 

High  on  the  throne  of  wit,  and,  seated  there, 

Not  mine,  that 's  little,  but  thy  laurel  wear. 

Thy  first  attempt  an  early  promise  made ; 

That  early  promise  this  has  more  than  paid. 

So  bold,  yet  so  judiciously  you  dare, 

That  your  least  praise  is  to  be  regular. 

Time,  place,  and  action,  may  with  pains  be  wrought ; 

But  genius  must  be  born,  and  never  can  be  taught. 

This  is  your  portion  ;  this  your  native  store ; 

Heaven,  that  but  once  was  prodigal  before. 

To  Shakespeare  gave  as  much  ;  she  could  not  give  him 

more. 
Maintain  your  post :  that 's  all  the  fame  you  need ; 
For  't  is  impossible  you  should  proceed. 
Already  I  am  worn  with  cares  and  age, 
And  just  abandoning  the  ungrateful  stage : 
Unprofitably  kept  at  Heaven's  expense, 
I  live  a  rent-charge  on  His  providence  : 
But  you,  whom  every  muse  and  grace  adorn. 
Whom  I  foresee  to  better  fortune  born, . 
Be  kind  to  my  remains ;  and  oh,  defend. 
Against  your  judgment,  your  departed  friend  ! 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  195 

Let  not  the  insulting  foe  my  fame  pursue, 
But  shade  those  laurels  which  descend  to  you  : 
And  take  for  tribute  what  these  lines  express  : 
You  merit  more ;  nor  could  my  love  do  less. 


THE   ILIAD. 

Froin 
BOOK   VI. 

Thus  having  said,  brave  Hector  went  to  see 

His  virtuous  wife,  the  fair  Andromache. 

He  found  her  not  at  home ;  for  she  was  gone, 

Attended  by  her  maid  and  infant  son. 

To  climb  the  steepy  tower  of  Ilion : 

From  whence,  with  heavy  heart,  she  might  survey 

The  bloody  business  of  the  dreadful  day. 

Her  mournful  eyes  she  cast  around  the  plain. 

And  sought  the  lord  of  her  desires  in  vain. 

But  he,  who  thought  his  peopled  palace  bare, 

When  she,  his  only  comfort,  was  not  there. 

Stood  in  the  gate,  and  asked  of  every  one 

Which  way  she  took,  and  whither  she  was  gone : 

If  to  the  court,  or,  with  his  mother's  train. 

In  long  procession  to  Minerva's  fane  } 

The  servants  answered,  neither  to  the  court. 

Where  Priam's  sons  and  daughters  did  resort. 

Nor  to  the  temple  was  she  gone,  to  move 

With  prayers  the  blue-eyed  progeny  of  Jove  : 


196  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

But  more  solicitous  for  him  alone 

Than  all  their  safety,  to  the  tower  was  gone, 

There  to  survey  the  labours  of  the  field. 

Where  the  Greeks  conquer,  and  the  Trojans  yield ; 

Swiftly  she  passed,  with  fear  and  fury  wild ; 

The  nurse  went  lagging  after  with  the  child. 

This  heard,  the  noble  Hector  made  no  stay : 
The  admiring  throng  divide  to  give  him  way ; 
He    passed    through    every    street,    by    which    he 

came. 
And  at  the  gate  he  met  the  mournful  dame. 

His  wife  beheld  him,  and  with  eager  pace 
Flew  to  his  arms,  to  meet  a  dear  embrace : 
His  wife,  who  brought  in  dower  Cilicia's  crown, 
And  in  herself  a  greater  dower  alone  : 
Action's  heir,  who  on  the  woody  plain 
Of  Hippoplacus  did  in  Thebe  reign. 
Breathless  she  flew,  with  joy  and  passion  wild : 
The  nurse  came  lagging  after  with  the  child. 

The  royal  babe  upon  her  breast  was  laid  ; 
Who,  like  the  morning  star,  his  beams  displayed. 
Scamandrius  was  his  name,  which  Hector  gave, 
From  that  fair  flood  which  Ilion's  wall  did  lave : 
But  him  Astyanax  the  Trojans  call. 
From  his  great  father,  who  defends  the  wall. 

Hector  beheld  him  with  a  silent  smile : 
His  tender  wife  stood  weeping  by  the  while : 
Pressed  in  her  own,  his  warlike  hand  she  took, 
Then  sighed,  and  thus  prophetically  spoke  : 
"  Thy  dauntless  heart  (which  I  foresee  too  late) 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  197 

Too  daring  man,  will  urge  thee  to  thy  fate : 

Nor  dost  thou  pity,  with  a  parent's  mind, 

This  helpless  orphan,  whom  thou  leav'st  behind ; 

Nor  me,  the  unhappy  partner  of  thy  bed, 

Who  must  in  triumph  by  the  Greeks  be  led ; 

They  seek  thy  life,  and,  in  unequal  fight 

With  many,  will  oppress  thy  single  might : 

Better  it  were  for  miserable  me 

To  die,  before  the  fate  which  I  foresee. 

For  ah  !  what  comfort  can  the  world  bequeath 

To  Hector's  widow,  after  Hector's  death? 

"  Eternal  sorrow  and  perpetual  tears 
Began  my  youth,  and  will  conclude  my  years  : 
I  have  no  parents,  friends,  nor  brothers  left ; 
By  stern  Achilles  all  of  life  bereft. 
Then  when  the  walls  of  Thebes  he  overthrew, 
His  fatal  hand  my  royal  father  slew ; 
He  slew  Action,  but  despoiled  him  not ; 
Nor  in  his  hate  the  funeral  rites  forgot ; 
Armed  as  he  was  he  sent  him  whole  below, 
And  reverenced  thus  the  manes  of  his  foe : 
A  tomb  he  raised ;  the  mountain  nymphs  around 
Inclosed  with  planted  elms  the  holy  ground. 

"  My  seven  brave  brothers  in  one  fatal  day 
To  Death's  dark  mansions  took  the  mournful  way ; 
Slain  by  the  same  Achilles,  while  they  keep 
The  bellowing  oxen  and  the  bleating  sheep. 
My  mother,  who  the  royal  sceptre  swayed, 
Was  captive  to  the  cruel  victor  made. 
And  hither  led ;  but,  hence  redeemed  with  gold, 


198  TWELVE    ENGLISH  POETS. 

Her  native  country  did  again  behold, 
And  but  beheld  :  for  soon  Diana's  dart, 
In  an  unhappy  chase,  transfixed  her  heart. 
"  But  thou,  my  Hector,  art  thyself  alone 
My  parents,  brothers,  and  my  lord  in  one. 
Oh,  kill  not  all  my  kindred  o'er  again, 
Nor  tempt  the  dangers  of  the  dusty  plain ; 
But  in  this  tower,  for  our  defence,  remain. 
Thy  wife  and  son  are  in  thy  ruin  lost ; 
This  is  a  husband's  and  a  father's  post. 
The  Scaean  gate  commands  the  plains  below : 
Here  marshal  all  thy  soldiers  as  they  go ; 
And  hence  with  other  hands  repel  the  foe. 
By  yon  wild  fig-tree  lies  their  chief  ascent. 
And  thither  all  their  powers  are  daily  bent ; 
The  two  Ajaces  have  I  often  seen. 
And  the  wronged  husband  of  the  Spartan  queen  : 
With  him  his  greater  brother ;  and  with  these 
Fierce  Diomede  and  bold  Meriones : 
Uncertain  if  by  augury  or  chance. 
But  by  this  easy  rise  they  all  advance ; 
Guard  well  that  pass,  secure  of  all  beside." 
To  whom  the  noble  Hector  thus  replied  : 

"  That  and  the  rest  are  in  my  daily  care ; 
But,  should  I  shun  the  dangers  of  the  war, 
With  scorn  the  Trojans  would  reward  my  pains. 
And  their  proud  ladies  with  their  sweeping  trains. 
The  Grecian  swords  and  lances  I  can  bear ; 
But  loss  of  honour  is  my  only  fear. 
Shall  Hector,  born  to  war,  his  birthright  yield, 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  199 

Belie  his  courage,  and  forsake  the  iield  ? 
Early  in  rugged  arms  I  took  delight, 
And  still  have  been  the  foremost  in  the  fight : 
With  dangers  dearly  have  I  bought  renown. 
And  am  the  champion  of  my  father's  crown. 
And  yet  my  mind  forebodes,  with  sure  presage, 
That  Troy  shall  perish  by  the  Grecian  rage. 
Theiatal  day  draws  on,  when  I  must  fall. 
And  universal  ruin  cover  all. 
Not  Troy  itself,  though  built  by  hands  divine. 
Nor  Priam,  nor  his  people,  nor  his  line. 
My  mother,  nor  my  brothers  of  renown, 
Whose  valour  yet  defends  the  unhappy  town  ; 
Not  these,  nor  all  their  fates  which  I  foresee, 
Are  half  of  that  concern  I  have  for  thee. 
I  see,  I  see  thee,  in  that  fatal  hour, 
Subjected  to  the  victor's  cruel  power ; 
Led  hence  a  slave  to  some  insulting  sword. 
Forlorn,  and  trembling  at  a  foreign  lord ; 
A  spectacle  in  Argos,  at  the  loom. 
Gracing  with  Trojan  fights  a  Grecian  room  ; 
Or  from  deep  wells  the  living  stream  to  take. 
And  on  thy  weary  shoulders  bring  it  back. 
While,  groaning  under  this  laborious  life. 
They  insolently  call  thee  Hector's  wife; 
Upbraid  thy  bondage  with  thy  husband's  name ; 
And  fromi  my  glory  propagate  thy  shame. 
This  when  they  say,  thy  sorrows  will  increase 
With  anxious  thoughts  of  former  happiness  ; 
That  he  is  dead  who  could  thy  wrongs  redress. 


200  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

But  I,  oppressed  with  iron  sleep  before, 
Shall  hear  thy  unavailing  cries  no  more." 

He  said  — 
Then,  holding  forth  his  arms,  he  took  his  boy. 
The  pledge  of  love  and  other  hope  of  Troy. 
The  fearful  infant  turned  his  head  away, 
And  on  his  nurse's  neck  reclining  lay, 
His  unknown  father  shunning  with  affright, 
And  looking  back  on  so  uncouth  a  sight  ; 
Daunted  to  see  a  face  with  steel  o'erspread. 
And  his  high  plume  that  nodded  o'er  his  head. 
His  sire  and  mother  smiled  with  silent  joy, 
And  Hector  hastened  to  relieve  his  boy; 
Dismissed  his  burnished  helm,  that  shone  afar. 
The  pride  of  warriors,  and  the  pomp  of  war : 
The  illustrious  babe,  thus  reconciled,  he  took; 
Hugged    in    his   arms,    and    kissed,    and    thus    he 

spoke : 
"  Parent  of  gods  and  men,  propitious  Jove, 
And  you  bright  synod  of  the  Powers  above ; 
On  this  my  son  your  gracious  gifts  bestow ; 
Grant  him  to  live,  and  great  in  arms  to  grow, 
To  reign  in  Troy,  to  govern  with  renown. 
To  shield  the  people,  and  assert  the  crown  : 
That  when  hereafter  he  from  war  shall  come. 
And  bring  his  Trojans  peace  and  triumph  home, 
Some  aged  man,  who  lives  this  act  to  see. 
And  who  in  former  times  remembered  me, 
May  say,  '  The  son  in  fortitude  and  fame 
Outgoes  the  mark,  and  drowns  his  father's  name ' : 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  201 

That  at  these  words  his  mother  may  rejoice, 
And  add  her  suffrage  to  the  public  voice." 

Thus  having  said, 
He  first  with  suppliant  hands  the  gods  adored  : 
Then  to  the  mother's  arms  the  child  restored  :     ' 
With  tears  and  smiles  she  took  her  son,  and  pressed 
The  illustrious  infant  to  her  fragrant  breast. 
He,  wiping  her  fair  eyes,  indulged  her  grief, 
And  eased  her  sorrows  with  this  last  relief : 

"  My  wife  and  mistress,  drive  thy  fears  away. 
Nor  give  so  bad  an  omen  to  the  day ; 
Think  not  it  lies  in  any  Grecian's  power, 
To  take  my  life  before  the  fatal  hour. 
When  that  arrives,  nor  good  nor  bad  can  fly 
The  irrevocable  doom  of  destiny. 
Return,  and  to  divert  thy  thoughts  at  home. 
There  task  thy  maids,  and  exercise  the  loom. 
Employed  in  works  that  womankind  become. 
The  toils  of  war  and  feats  of  chivalry 
Belong  to  men,  and  most  of  all  to  me." 

At  this,  for  new  replies  he  did  not  stay, 
But  laced  his  crested  helm,  and  strode  away. 
His  lovely  consort  to  her  house  returned. 
And  looking  often  back,  in  silence  mourned  : 
Home  when  she  came,  her  secret  woe  she  vents. 
And  fills  the  palace  with  her  loud  laments ; 
These  loud  laments  her  echoing  maids  restore, 
And  Hector,  yet  alive,  as  dead  deplore. 


202  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

A    SONG 

FOR  ST.  Cecilia's  day. 

I. 
From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony 
This  universal  frame  began  : 
When  nature  underneath  a  heap 

Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 
And  could  not  heave  her  head. 
The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 

Arise,  ye  more  than  dead. 
Then  cold,  and  hot,  and  moist,  and  dry, 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap. 
And  Music's  power  obey. 
From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony 
This  universal  frame  began  : 
From  harmony  to  harmony 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran, 
The  diapason  closing  full  in  Man. 

II. 
What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell .-' 
When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell, 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around. 

And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound. 
Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there  could  not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell. 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and. quell.'' 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  203 

III. 
The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

Excites  us  to  arms, 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger, 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double,  double,  double  beat 
Of  the  thundering  drum 
Cries,  hark  !  the  foes  come  ; 
Charge,  charge,  't  is  too  late  to  retreat. 

IV. 

The  soft  complaining  flute 
In  dying  notes  discovers 
The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers, 
Whose  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  warbling  lute. 


Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs,  and  desperation, 
Fury,  frantic  indignation. 
Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion 

For  the  fair,  disdainful  dame. 

VI. 

But  oh  !  what  art  can  teach. 
What  human  voice  can  reach. 

The  sacred  organ's  praise  } 
Notes  inspiring  holy  love. 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 
To  mend  the  choirs  above. 


204  TWELVE   EA^GLISH  POETS. 

VII. 
Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race ; 
And  trees  uprooted  left  their  place, 

Sequacious  of  the  lyre  : 
But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher 
When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given, 
An  angel  heard,  and  straight  appeared 

Mistaking  earth  for  heaven. 

Grand  Chorus. 

As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 

The  spheres  began  to  move, 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 
To  all  the  blessed  above  ; 

So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high. 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die, 
And  Music  shall  untune  the  sky. 


ALEXANDER'S    FEAST; 

OR, 

THE    POWDER   OF   MUSIC: 

An  Ode  in  Ho7iotir  of  St.  Cecilia's  Day. 

I. 

'T  WAS  at  the  royal  feast,  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son  : 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  205 

Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne : 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound ; 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned.) 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side, 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  ! 
None  but  the  brave. 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

Chorus. 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair ! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

II. 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high 

Amid  the  tuneful  quire. 

With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre : 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky. 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love.) 


206  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god : 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode, 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed  : 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast : 
Then,  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled, 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of 

the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity  !  they  shout  around  : 
A  present  deity  !  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound  : 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god. 
Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

Chorus. 

With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears. 
Assumes  the  god, 
Affects  to  nod. 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

III. 
The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung, 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair  and  ever  young : 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes ; 
Sound  the  trumpets  ;  beat  the  drums  ; 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face  : 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  207 

Now  give  the  hautboys  breath ;  he  comes,  he  comes  ! 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young. 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain  ; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure. 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure  : 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Chorus. 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure : 

Rich  the  treasure, 

Sweet  the  pleasure. 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

IV. 

Soothed  with  the  sound  the  king  grew  vain ; 

Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again ; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes ;  and  thrice  he  slew 
the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise ; 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes ; 
And,  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied. 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 

He  chose  a  mournful  muse 

Soft  pity  to  infuse  : 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a  fate. 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 


20S  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 

And  welt'ring  in  his  blood ; 
Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need, 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed ; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below ; 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole ; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

Chorjis. 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below ; 

And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole ; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 


The  mighty  master  smiled,  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree ; 
'T  was  but  a  kindred-sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 

Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures, 

Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble ; 
Honour,  but  an  empty  bubble ; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying : 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  209 

Think,  oh  think  it  worth  enjoying : 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 
Take  the  goods  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause ; 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again  : 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed. 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Chorus. 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again  : 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

VI. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again : 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain  ! 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder. 
And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark !  the  horrid  sound 

Has  raised  up  his  head : 

As  awaked  from  the  dead, 


210  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
"  Revenge,  revenge,"  Timotheus  cries, 
"  See  the  furies  arise  : 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes  ! 
Behold  a  ghastly  band, 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand  ! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts  that  in  battle  were  slain. 
And  unburied  remain 
Inglorious  on  the  plain  : 
Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 

How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods !  " 
The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy ; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy ; 
Thais  led  the  way, 
To  light  him  to  his  prey. 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 

Choriis. 

And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy ; 

Thais  led  the  way, 

To  light  him  to  his  prey. 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  211 

VII. 

Thus,  long  ago, 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow. 
While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 
And  sounding  lyre. 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame  ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store. 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds. 
With  nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown ; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ; 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 

Grand  Chorus. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame  ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds. 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize. 

Or  both  divide  the  crown  ; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ; 

She  drew  an  angel  down. 


212  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

VENI    CREATOR    SPIRITUS  ! 

PARAPHRASE. 

Creator  Spirit,  by  whose  aid 

The  world's  foundations  first  were  laid, 

Come  visit  every  pious  mind; 

Come  pour  Thy  joys  on  human  kind ; 

From  sin  and  sorrow  set  us  free, 

And  make  Thy  temples  worthy  Thee. 

O  Source  of  uncreated  light. 
The  Father's  promised  Paraclete! 
Thrice  Holy  Fount,  thrice  Holy  Fire, 
Our  hearts  with  heavenly  love  inspire ; 
Come,  and  Thy  sacred  unction  bring 
To  sanctify  us,  while  we  sing. 

Plenteous  of  Grace,  descend  from  high, 
Rich  in  Thy  sevenfold  energy ! 
Thou  strength  of  His  Almighty  hand. 
Whose  power  does  heaven  and  earth  command. 
Proceeding  Spirit,  our  defence, 
Who  dost  the  gift  of  tongues  dispense. 
And  crown'st  Thy  gift  with  eloquence. 
Refine  and  purge  our  earthly  parts  ; 
But,  oh,  inflame  and  fire  our  hearts  ! 
Our  frailties  help,  our  vice  control, 
Submit  the  senses  to  the  soul ; 
And  when  rebellious  they  are  grown. 
Then  lay  Thy  hand,  and  hold  'em  down. 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  213 


» 


Chase  from  our  minds  the  infernal  foe, 
And  peace,  the  fruit  of  love,  bestow  ; 
And  lest  our  feet  should  step  astray, 
Protect  and  guide  us  in  the  way. 

Make  us  eternal  truths  receive, 
And  practise  all  that  we  believe : 
Give  us  Thyself,  that  we  may  see 
The  Father,  and  the  Son,  by  Thee. 

Immortal  honour,  endless  fame, 
Attend  the  Almighty  Father's  name  : 
The  Saviour  Son  be  glorified. 
Who  for  lost  man's  redemption  died  : 
And  equal  adoration  be. 
Eternal  Paraclete,  to  Thee. 


VI.     ALEXANDER  POPE. 

1 688-1 744. 

One  fine  morning  in  the  last  days  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  nearly  two  hundred  years  ago,  a  small  schoolboy 
in  London  slipped  in  with  a  crowd  of  gay  wits  and  men  of 
fashion  to  Will's  Coffee-House,  to  have  a  look  at  the  great 
Mr.  Dryden.  The  boy  was  not  twelve  years  old,  puny, 
dwarfed  and  deformed,  and  so  sickly  and  insignificant  that 
the  lookers-on  must  have  wondered  why  the  feeble  little 
morsel  of  humanity  should  be  there.  If  they  had  asked 
the  boy,  however,  he  could  have  given  a  good  account  of 
himself.  He  had  come  because  he  admired  Mr.  Dryden's 
verse  and  longed  to  see  for  himself  the  man  whom  he 
had  taken  for  a  master  and  a  model ;  because  better  than 
anything  else  he  loved  books  and  book  makers  ;  in  short, 
because  his  small,  distorted  body  was  the  cage  which  held 
a  growing  genius,  and  already  he  was  not  a  boy,  but  a 
precocious  man  of  letters  himself.  This  visit  of  the  boy  to 
Will's  gave  Dryden,  just  before  he  died,  a  chance  to  see  his 
great  successor,  his  most  brilliant  and  distinguished  follower, 
Alexander  Pope, 

"The  Little  Nightingale," 

"  The  Little  Wasp  of  Twickenham," 

"The  young  Papist  lad  out  of  Windsor  Forest,  who  had 
never  seen  a  university  in  his  life,  and  came  and 
conquered  the  Dons  and  the  Doctors  with  his 
wit"; 

21S 


216  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  man 

"  who  added  more  phrases  to  our  language  than  any  other 

but  Shakespeare  "; 
"The  greatest  literary  artist  England  ever  saw," 
"  King  Alexander." 

When  Pope  was  born  in  London,  in  1688,  his  father  was 
a  Roman  Catholic  merchant  on  Lombard  Street,  who  had 
accumulated  a  little  property,  and  soon  went  to  live  in  Bon- 
field,  in  Windsor  Forest,  taking  with  him  the  delicate  child, 
who  said  afterwards  that  his  life  was  one  long  disease. 
When  the  boy  was  eight,  he  began  to  study  Greek  and  Latin 
with  a  priest ;  then  he  went  for  a  few  months  to  two  schools  ; 
then  he  studied  with  another  priest,  and  at  twelve  he  fin- 
ished his  education,  as  we  say.  Then  he  began  to  read  all 
the  poetry  in  all  the  languages  that  he  could  find,  getting 
the  languages,  he  said,  by  hunting  after  the  stories  and  fol- 
lowing wherever  his  fancy  led  him,  "  like  a  boy  gathering 
flowers  in  the  woods  and  fields  just  as  they  fall  in  his  way." 
This  unusual  education  was  enough  to  make  the  unusual 
boy  a  brilliant  wit,  if  not  a  learned  scholar,  and  his  wit 
made  him  hosts  of  famous  and  fashionable  friends.  By  the 
time  that  he  was  sixteen,  when  he  had  written  an  ode,  and 
begun  an  epic,  and  modernized  some  Chaucer,  and  translated 
some  Ovid,  and  tried  his  hand  at  a  comedy,  and  "  thought 
himself  the  greatest  genius  that  ever  was,"  he  began  to 
frequent  the  coffee-houses.  Will's  and  Button's,  and  to 
make  friends  with  all  the  great  men  of  the  day.  But  he  was 
a  dangerous  friend.  He  loved  people  for  a  time  and  then 
quarreled  with  them,  and  straightway  wrote  bitter,  hateful 
satires  about  them,  which  he  printed  for  the  benefit  of  the 
town.  He  admired  Addison  and  then  quarreled  with  him, 
and  satirized  him  splendidly  as  "  Atticus,"  in  his  "  Epistle  to 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  217 

Arbuthnot."  He  fell  in  love  with  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Mon- 
tagu, one  of  the  beauties  and  toasts  of  the  Kit-Cat  Club, 
"  the  liveliest,  severest,  and  wittiest  woman  of  her  time,"  and 
when  she  laughed  at  him,  began  to  hate  and  lampoon  and 
vilify  her  as  only  he  could  do.  To  have  secured  his  friendship 
one  must  have  been  rich  or  well  born,  or,  for  some  cause  or 
other,  famous  and  brilliant.  Then  he  must  have  been  care- 
ful not  to  offend  the  touchy,  irritable,  hot-tempered  little 
man  ;  not  to  excel  him  in  literary  work,  for  he  was  desper- 
ately jealous  ;  not  to  ridicule  him,  for  he  was  immensely 
sensitive  and  self-conscious;  and  with  all  these  traits  he  was 
so  easy  to  laugh  at  !  As  he  grew  older  his  feebleness  and 
deformity  increased,  and  the  gentlemen  of  those  days  did 
not  hesitate  to  make  a  butt  of  any  bodily  infirmity.  Every 
one  has  heard  the  story,  told  in  various  ways,  that  once  Pope 
was  sitting,  his  chair  raised  to  bring  him  up  to  the  table 
(for  he  was  less  than  four  feet  high),  talking  with  some  gen- 
tlemen, when  one  of  them,  a  naval  officer,  suggested  that  a 
line  of  Greek  which  they  were  discussing  would  be  made 
plain  by  putting  after  it  an  interrogation  point.  Pope  said 
to  him,  very  witheringly,  "  Indeed,  and  what  is  an  interro- 
gation point  ?  "  "  Oh,"  the  gentleman  replied,  "  I  thought 
every  one  knew  that.  It  is  a  little  crooked  thing  that  asks 
questions." 

But  with  all  these  infirmities  of  body  and  temper.  Pope 
had  true  friends, —  Bolingbroke,  Peterborough,  Oxford,  Swift, 
Gray,  and  Arbuthnot ;  the  sisters  Martha  and  Teresa 
Blount ;  the  artist  Richardson  ;  and  the  wonderful  Sir  God- 
frey Kneller,  "  who  bragged  more,  spelt  worse,  and  painted 
better  than  any  artist  of  his  day." 

Pope's  life  was  spent  in  Windsor  Forest,  in  London,  and 
in  his  famous  villa  at  Twickenham.  Here  his  old  mother, 
one  person  towards  whom  his   love   and  tenderness  never 


218  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

failed,  lived  with  him  until  she  was  ninety-three,  and  here 
Pope  himself  died  in  1744,  at  fifty-six,  having  won  noble 
honors  and  splendid  fame. 

The  "  Essay  on  Criticism  "  was  written  when  Pope  was 
only  twenty-one,  in  the  polished,  smooth,  heroic  couplets,  in 
rhyming  lines  of  ten  syllables,  which  he  had  learned  from 
Dryden.  It  was  a  wonderfully  brilliant  thing  for  a  young 
lad  to  do,  though  its  precepts  were  not  original,  and  Lady 
Mary  said  savagely  of  it :  "I  admired  Mr.  Pope's  '  Essay 
on  Criticism  '  at  first  very  much,  because  I  had  not  then  read 
any  of  the  ancient  critics  and  did  not  know  that  it  was  all 
stolen."  The  "  Essay  on  Man,"  written  many  years  later,  in 
four  letters  to  the  witty,  wicked  Bolingbroke,  was  another 
collection  of  brilliant  sayings  which  he  made  into  familiar 
proverbs.  The  "  Rape  of  the  Lock  "  was  written  to  laugh 
back  into  good  humor  a  young  lady,  Mrs.  Arabella  Fermor, 
whose  family  was  indignant  because  a  young  gallant.  Lord 
Petre,  had  cut  off  a  lock  of  her  hair  in  sport. 

The  scathing,  literary  satire,  "  The  Dunciad  "  ("  The  Iliad 
of  Dunces  "),  was  written  to  punish  all  Pope's  small  enemies 
of  the  pen  at  a  blow.  It  closes  with  some  fine  lines  on  the 
"  Conquest  of  Dullness,"  which  Pope  himself  admired  so 
much  that  his  voice  faltered  when  he  repeated  them.  "  And 
well  it  might,"  Johnson  said  when  he  heard  the  story;  "they 
are  noble  lines."  By  the  translation  of  the  "lUad"  Pope 
made  a  small  fortune  in  money,  and  a  great  one  in  reputa- 
tion. This  reputation  has  changed  with  the  changing  years, 
a  hundred  and  fifty  of  which  have  gone  since  he  died.  But 
whatever  may  be  thought  of  Pope's  work  as  compared  with 
that  of  his  great  predecessors  and  of  his  great  followers,  the 
verdict  has  never  been  challenged  that  he  was  the  chief 
poet  of  his  own  day,  the  magnificent  Augustan  age  of 
English  letters. 


THE   ESSAY   ON    CRITICISM. 

From 
PART   II. 

Of  all  the  causes  which  conspire  to  blind 
Man's  erring  judgment,  and  misguide  the  mind, 
What  the  weak  head  with  strongest  bias  rules, 
Is  pride ;  the  never-failing  vice  of  fools. 
Whatever  nature  has  in  worth  denied. 
She  gives  in  large  recruits  of  needful  pride  ! 
For  as  in  bodies,  thus  in  souls,  we  find 
What  wants  in  blood  and  spirits,  swell'd  with  wind 
Pride,  where  wit  fails,  steps  in  to  our  defence, 
And  fills  up  all  the  mighty  void  of  sense. 
If  once  right  reason  drives  that  cloud  away, 
Truth  breaks  upon  us  with  resistless  day.- 
Trust  not  yourself ;  but,  your  defects  to  know. 
Make  use  of  every  friend  —  and  every  foe. 
A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing ! 
Drink  deep,  or  taste  not  the  Pierian  spring ; 
There  shallow  draughts  intoxicate  the  brain, 
And  drinking  largely  sobers  us  again. 
Fired  at  first  sight  with  what  the  muse  imparts. 
In  fearless  youth  we  tempt  the  height  of  arts, 
While  from  the  bounded  level  of  our  mind, 
Short  views  we  take,  nor  see  the  lengths  behind ; 

219 


220  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

But  more  advanced,  behold  with  strange  surprise 
New  distant  scenes  of  endless  science  rise ! 
So,  pleased  at  first,  the  towering  Alps  we  try. 
Mount  o'er  the  vales,  and  seem  to  tr«ad  the  sky ! 
The  eternal  snows  appear  already  pass'd, 
And  the  first  clouds  and  mountains  seem  the  last : 
But,  those  attain'd,  we  tremble  to  survey 
The  growing  labours  of  the  lengthen'd  way  : 
The  increasing  prospect  tires  our  wandering  eyes. 
Hills  peep  o'er  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps  arise  ! 
A  perfect  judge  will  read  each  work  of  wit 
With  the  same  spirit  that  its  author  writ : 
Survey  the  whole,  nor  seek  slight  faults  to  find 
Where  nature  moves,  and  rapture  warms  the  mind ; 
Nor  lose,  for  that  malignant  dull  delight, 
The  generous  pleasure  to  be  charm'd  with  wit. 
But,  in  such  lays  as  neither  ebb  nor  flow, 
Correctly  cold,  and  regularly  low. 
That,  shunning  faults,  one  quiet  tenor  keep; 
We  cannot  blame  indeed  —  but  we  may  sleep. 
In  wit,  as  nature,  what  affects  our  hearts 
Is  not  the  exactness  of  peculiar  parts  ; 
'T  is  not  the  lip,  or  eye,  we  beauty  call, 
But  the  joint  force  and  full  result  of  all. 
Thus  when  we  view  some  well-proportion'd  dome, 
(The  world's  just  wonder,  and  e'en  thine,  oh  Rome!) 
No  single  parts  unequally  surprise ; 
All  comes  united  to  the  admiring  eyes  : 
No  monstrous  height,  or  breadth,  or  length  appear :  , 
The  whole  at  once  is  bold,  and  regular. 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  221 

Whoever  thinks  a  faultless  piece  to  see, 
Thinks  what  ne'er  was,  nor  is,  nor  e'er  shall  be. 
In  every  work  regard  the  writer's  end, 
Since  none  can  compass  more  than  they  intend ; 
And  if  the  means  be  just,  the  conduct  true, 
Applause,  in  spite  of  trivial  faults,  is  due. 
As  men  of  breeding,  sometimes  men  of  wit, 
To  avoid  great  errors,  must  the  less  commit ; 
Neglect  the  rule  each  verbal  critic  lays  ; 
For  not  to  know  some  trifles,  is  a  praise. 
Most  critics,  fond  of  some  subservient  art, 
Still  make  the  whole  depend  upon  a  part : 
They  talk  of  principles,  but  notions  prize, 
And  all  to  one  loved  folly  sacrifice. 

Once  on  a  time.  La  Mancha's  knight,  they  say, 
A  certain  bard  encountering  on  the  way, 
Discoursed  in  terms  as  just,  with  looks  as  sage, 
As  e'er  could  Dennis,  of  the  Grecian  stage  ; 
Concluding  all  were  desperate  sots  and  fools, 
Who  durst  depart  from  Aristotle's  rules. 
Our  author,  happy  in  a  judge  so  nice. 
Produced  his  play,  and  begg'd  the  knight's  advice  ; 
Made  him  observe  the  subject,  and  the  plot, 
The  manners,  passions,  unities  ;  what  not } 
All  which,  exact  to  rule,  were  brought  about. 
Were  but  a  combat  in  the  lists  left  out. 
"  What !  leave  the  combat  out .''  "  exclaims  the  knight. 
"Yes, or  we  must  renounce  the  Stagyrite."  — 
"  Not  so,  by  heaven  !  "  he  answers  in  a  rage. 
•'  Knights,  squires,  and  steeds,  must  enter  on  the  stage." 


222  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

"So  vast  a  throng  the  stage  can  ne'er  contam."  — 
"Then  build  a  new,  or  act  it  on  a  plain." 

Thus  critics  of  less  judgment  than  caprice, 
Curious,  not  knowing,  not  exact,  but  nice, 
Form  short  ideas  ;  and  offend  in  arts 
(As  most  in  manners)  by  a  love  to  parts. 

Some  to  conceit  alone  their  taste  confine. 
And  glittering  thoughts  struck  out  at  every  line ; 
Pleased  with  a  work  where  nothing's  just  or  fit; 
One  glaring  chaos  and  wild  heap  of  wit. 
Poets,  like  painters,  thus  unskill'd  to  trace 
The  naked  nature  and  the  living  grace. 
With  gold  and  jewels  cover  every  part, 
And  hide  with  ornaments  their  want  of  art. 
True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  dress'd. 
What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  express'd ; 
Something,  whose  truth  convinced  at  sight  we  find ; 
That  gives  us  back  the  image  of  our  mind. 
As  shades  more  sweetly  recommend  the  light. 
So  modest  plainness  sets  off  sprightly  wit ; 
For  works  may  have  more  wit  than  does  them  good, 
As  bodies  perish  through  excess  of  blood. 

Others  for  language  all  their  care  express. 
And  value  books,  as  women  men,  for  dress : 
Their  praise  is  still,  —  the  style  is  excellent ; 
The  sense,  they  humbly  take  upon  content. 
Words  are  like  leaves ;  and  where  they  most  abound, 
Much  fruit  of  sense  beneath  is  rarely  found. 
False  eloquence,  like  the  prismatic  glass. 
Its  gaudy  colours  spreads  on  every  place ; 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  223 

The  face  of  nature  we  no  more  survey, 

All  glares  alike,  without  distinction  gay  : 

But  true  expression,  like  the  unchanging  sun, 

Clears  and  improves  whate'er  it  shines  upon : 

It  gilds  all  objects,  but  it  alters  none. 

Expression  is  the  dress  of  thought,  and  still 

Appears  more  decent  as  more  suitable  : 

A  vile  conceit  in  pompous  words  express'd, 

Is  like  a  clown  in  regal  purple  dress'd  ; 

Kor  different  styles  with  different  subjects  sort, 

As  several  garbs,  with  country,  town,  and  court. 

Some  by  old  words  to  fame  have  made  pretence, 

Ancients  in  phrase,  mere  moderns  in  their  sense ; 

Such  labour'd  nothings,  in  so  strange  a  style, 

Amaze  the  unlearn'd,  and  make  the  learned  smile. 

Unlucky,  as  Fungoso  in  the  play, 

These  sparks  with  awkward  vanity  display 

What  the  fine  gentleman  wore  yesterday ; 

And  but  so  mimic  ancient  wits  at  best, 

As  apes  our  grandsires  in  their  doublets  dress'd. 

In  words,  as  fashions,  the  same  rule  will  hold  ; 

Alike  fantastic,  if  too  new  or  old  : 

Be  not  the  first  by  whom  the  new  are  tried. 

Nor  yet  the  last  to  lay  the  old  aside. 

But  most  by  numbers  judge  a  poet's  song; 
And  smooth  or  rough,  with  them,  is  right  or  wrong  : 
In  the  bright  muse  though  thousand  charms  conspire. 
Her  voice  is  all  these  tuneful  fools  admire ; 
Who  haunt  Parnassus  but  to  please  their  ear. 
Not  mend  their  minds ;  as  some  to  church  repair. 


224  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Not  for  the  doctrine,  but  the  music  there. 
These  equal  syllables  alone  require, 
Though  oft  the  ear  the  open  vowels  tire ; 
While  expletives  their  feeble  aid  do  join, 
And  ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  line  : 
While  they  ring  round  the  same  unvaried  chimes. 
With  sure  returns  of  still  expected  rhymes ; 
Where'er  you  find  'the  cooling  western  breeze,' 
In  the  next  line  it  '  whispers  through  the  trees  '  : 
If  crystal  streams  'with  pleasing  murmurs  creep,' 
The  reader  's  threatened  (not  in  vain)  with  '  sleep  ' : 
Then  at  the  last,  and  only  couplet  fraught 
With  some  unmeaning  thing  they  call  a  thought, 
A  needless  Alexandrine  ends  the  song, 
That,  like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow  length  along. 
Leave  such  to  tune  their  own  dull  rhymes,  and  know 
What 's  roundly  smooth,  or  languishingly  slow ; 
And  praise  the  easy  vigour  of  a  line, 
Where  Denham's  strength  and  Waller's  sweetness  join. 
True  ease  in  writing  comes  from  art,  not  chance, 
As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learn'd  to  dance. 
'T  is  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  offence. 
The  sound  must  seem  an  echo  to  the  sense : 
Soft  is  the  strain  when  Zephyr  gently  blows. 
And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  numbers  flows ; 
But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore, 
The  hoarse,  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar. 
When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw. 
The  line  too  labours,  and  the  words  move  slow  : 
Not  so,  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain, 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  225 

Flies  o'er  the  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the  main. 
Hear  how  Timotheus'  varied  lays  surprise, 
And  bid  alternate  passions  fall  and  rise  ! 
While,  at  each  change,  the  son  of  Libyan  Jove 
Now  burns  with  glory,  and  then  melts  with  love : 
Now  his  fierce  eyes  with  sparkling  fury  glow. 
Now  sighs  steal  out,  and  tears  begin  to  flow  : 
Persians  and  Greeks  like  turns  of  nature  found, 
And  the  world's  victor  stood  subdued  by  sound ! 
The  power  of  music  all  our  hearts  allow. 
And  what  Timotheus  was,  is  Dryden  now. 

Avoid  extremes ;  and  shun  the  fault  of  such 
Who  still  are  pleased  too  little  or  too  much. 
At  every  trifle  scorn  to  take  offence. 
That  always  shows  great  pride,  or  little  sense : 
Those  heads,  as  stomachs,  are  not  sure  the  best, 
Which  nauseate  all,  and  nothing  can  digest. 
Yet  let  not  each  gay  turn  thy  rapture  move : 
For  fools  admire,  but  men  of  sense  approve : 
As  things  seem  large  which  we  through  mists  descry, 
Dulness  is  ever  apt  to  magnify. 

Some  foreign  writers,  some  our  own  despise ; 
The  ancients  only,  or  the  moderns  prize : 
Thus  wit,  like  faith,  by  each  man  is  applied 
To  one  small  sect,  and  all  are  damn'd  beside. 
Meanly  they  seek  the  blessing  to  confine, 
And  force  that  sun  but  on  a  part  to  shine, 
Which  not  alone  the  southern  wit  sublimes 
But  ripens  spirits  in  cold,  northern  climes; 
Which  from  the  first  has  shone  on  ages  past. 


226  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Enlights  the  present,  and  shall  warm  the  last ; 
Though  each  may  feel  increases  and  decays, 
And  see  now  clearer  and  now  darker  days. 
Regard  not  then  if  wit  be  old  or  new, 
But  blame  the  false,  and  value  still  the  true. 

Some  ne'er  advance  a  judgment  of  their  own, 
But  catch  the  spreading  notion  of  the  town ; 
They  reason  and  conclude  by  precedent. 
And  own  stale  nonsense  which  they  ne'er  invent. 
Some  judge  of  authors'  names,  not  works,  and  then 
Nor  praise  nor  blame  the  writings,  but  the  men. 
Of  all  this  servile  herd,  the  worst  is  he 
That  in  proud  dulness  joins  with  quality; 
A  constant  critic  at  the  great  man's  board 
To  fetch  and  carry  nonsense  for  my  lord. 
What  woeful  stuff  this  madrigal  would  be. 
In  some  starved  hackney'd  sonnetteer,  or  me ! 
But  let  a  lord  once  own  the  happy  lines, 
How  the  wit  brightens  !  how  the  style  refines  ! 
Before  his  sacred  name  flies  every  fault. 
And  each  exalted  stanza  teems  with  thought  ! 

The  vulgar  thus  through  imitation  err ; 
As  oft  the  learn'd  by  being  singular ; 
So  much  they  scorn  the  crowd,  that  if  the  throng 
By  chance  go  right  they  purposely  go  wrong : 
So  schismatics  the  plain  believers  quit. 
And  are  but  damn'd  for  having  too  much  wit. 
*         *         *  * 

Be  thou  the  first  true  merit  to  befriend  ; 
His  praise  is  lost  who  stays  till  all  commend. 


ALEXANDER  POPE.  Ill 

Short  is  the  date,  alas  !  of  modern  rhymes, 
And  't  is  but  just  to  let  them  live  betimes. 
No  longer  now  that  golden  age  appears, 
When  patriarch-wits  survived  a  thousand  years  : 
Now  length  of  fame  (our  second  life)  is  lost. 
And  bare  threescore  is  all  e'en  that  can  boast ; 
Our  sons  their  fathers'  failing  language  see, 
And  such  as  Chaucer  is,  shall  Dryden  be. 
So  when  the  faithful  pencil  has  design'd 
Some  bright  idea  of  the  master's  mind. 
Where  a  new  world  leaps  out  at  his  command, 
And  ready  nature  waits  upon  his  hand ; 
When  the  ripe  colours  soften  and  unite. 
And  sweetly  melt  into  just  shade  and  light ; 
When  mellowing  years  their  full  perfection  give, 
And  each  bold  figure  just  begins  to  live ; 
The  treacherous  colours  the  fair  art  betray. 
And  all  the  bright  creation  fades  away ! 

Unhappy  wit,  like  most  mistaken  things. 
Atones  not  for  that  envy  which  it  brings ; 
In  youth  alone  its  empty  praise  we  boast. 
But  soon  the  short-lived  vanity  is  lost ; 
Like  some  fair  flower  the  early  spring  supplies. 
That  gaily  blooms,  but  e'en  in  blooming  dies. 
*  *  *  * 

If  wit  so  much  from  ignorance  undergo. 
Ah,  let  not  learning  too  commence  its  foe! 
Of  old,  those  met  rewards  who  could  excel. 
And  such  were  praised  who  but  endeavour'd  well ; 
Though  triumphs  were  to  generals  only  due. 


228  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Crowns  were  reserved  to  grace  the  soldiers  too. 
Now  they  who  reach  Parnassus'  lofty  crown, 
Employ  their  pains  to  spurn  some  others  down ; 
And  while  self-love  each  jealous  writer  rules, 
Contending  wits  become  the  sport  of  fools  : 
But  still  the  worst  with  most  regret  commend. 
For  each  ill  author  is  as  bad  a  friend. 
To  what  base  ends,  and  by  what  abject  ways. 
Are  mortals  urged  through  sacred  lust  of  praise ! 
Ah,  ne'er  so  dire  a  thirst  of  glory  boast, 
Nor  in  the  critic  let  the  man  be  lost. 
Good  nature  and  good  sense  must  ever  join  ; 
To  err,  is  human,  to  forgive  divine. 


From 

ESSAY    ON    MAN. 

EPISTLE  I. 

Awake,  my  St.  John  !  leave  all  meaner  things 

To  low  ambition,  and  the  pride  of  kings  : 

Let  us  (since  life  can  little  more  supply 

Than  just  to  look  about  us,  and  to  die) 

Expatiate  free  o'er  all  this  scene  of  man ; 

A  mighty  maze !  but  not  without  a  plan  : 

A  wild,  where  weeds  and  flowers  promiscuous  shoot ; 

Or  garden,  tempting  with  forbidden  fruit. 

Together  let  us  beat  this  ample  field. 

Try  what  the  open,  what  the  covert  yield ; 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  11^ 

The  latent  tracts,  the  giddy  heights,  explore, 
Of  all  who  blindly  creep,  or  sightless  soar ; 
Eye  nature's  walks,  shoot  folly  as  it  flies. 
And  catch  the  manners  living  as  they  rise : 
Laugh  where  we  must,  be  candid  where  we  can, 
But  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man. 

I.  Say  first,  of  God  above,  or  man  below. 
What  can  we  reason,  but  from  what  we  know  ? 
Of  man,  what  see  we  but  his  station  here, 
From  which  to  reason,  or  to  which  refer  ? 

Through  worlds  unnumber'd  though  the  God  be  known, 

'Tis  ours  to  trace  him  only  in  our  own. 

He,  who  through  vast  immensity  can  pierce. 

See  worlds  on  worlds  compose  one  universe, 

Observe  how  system  into  system  runs, 

What  other  planets  circle  other  suns. 

What  varied  being  peoples  every  star, 

May  tell  why  heaven  has  made  us  as  we  are. 

But  of  this  frame,  the  bearings  and  the  ties, 

The  strong  connexions  nice,  dependencies, 

Gradations  just,  has  thy  pervading  soul 

Look'd  through.''  or  can  a  part  contain  the  whole.-' 

Is  the  great  chain  that  draws  all  to  agree. 
And  drawn  supports,  upheld  by  God,  or  thee  } 

II.  Presumptuous  man  !  the  reason  wouldst  thou  find, 
Why  form'd  so  weak,  so  little,  and  so  blind  } 

First,  if  thou  canst,  the  harder  reason  guess, 
Why  form'd  no  weaker,  blinder,  and  no  less. 
Ask  of  thy  mother  earth,  why  oaks  are  made 
Taller  or  stronger  than  the  weeds  they  shade. 


230  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Or  ask  of  yonder  argent  fields  above, 
Why  Jove's  satellites  are  less  than  Jove. 

Of  systems  possible,  if  't  is  confess'd, 
That  wisdom  infinite  must  form  the  best, 
Where  all  must  fall  or  not  coherent  be, 
And  all  that  rises,  rise  in  due  degree ; 
Then,  in  the  scale  of  reasoning  life,  't  is  plain. 
There  must  be  somewhere,  such  a  rank  as  man  : 
And  all  the  question  (wrangle  e'er  so  long) 
Is  only  this,  if  God  has  placed  him  wrong? 

Respecting  man,  whatever  wrong  we  call. 
May,  must  be  right,  as  relative  to  all. 
In  human  works,  though  laboured  on  with  pain, 
A  thousand  movements  scarce  one  purpose  gain  : 
In  God's,  one  single  can  its  end  produce ; 
Yet  serve  to  second  too  some  other  use. 
So  man,  who  here  seems  principal  alone. 
Perhaps  acts  second  to  some  sphere  unknown. 
Touches  some  wheel,  or  verges  to  some  goal  : 
'Tis  but  a  part  we  see,  and  not  a  whole. 

When  the  proud  steed  shall  know  why  man  restrains 
His  fiery  course,  or  drives  him  o'er  the  plains; 
When  the  dull  ox,  why  now  he  breaks  the  clod, 
Is  now  a  victim,  and  now  Egypt's  god, 
Then  shall  man's  pride  and  dulness  comprehend 
His  actions',  passions',  being's  use  and  end  ; 
Why  doing,  suffering,  check'd,  impell'd ;  and  why 
This  hour  a  slave,  the  next  a  deity. 

Then  say  not  man  's  imperfect.  Heaven  in  fault : 
Say  rather,  man  's  as  perfect  as  he  ought  : 


ALEXANDER  POPE.  231 

His  knowledge  measured  to  his  state  and  place, 

His  time  a  moment,  and  a  point  his  space. 

If  to  be  perfect  in  a  certain  sphere. 

What  matter,  soon  or  late,  or  here  or  there  ? 

The  bless'd  to-day  is  as  completely  so, 

As  who  began  a  thousand  years  ago. 

HI.  Heaven  from  all  creatures  hides  the  book  of  fate, 
All  but  the  page  prescribed,  their  present  state ; 
From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what  spirits  know  : 
Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  below  '^. 
The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day. 
Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  skip  and  play  } 
Pleased  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flowery  food. 
And  licks  the  hand  just  raised  to  shed  his  blood. 
Oh  blindness  to  the  future !  kindly  given. 
That  each  may  fill  the  circle  raark'd  by  Heaven ; 
Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 
A  hero  perish,  or  a  sparrow  fall. 
Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  hurl'd. 
And  now  a  bubble  burst,  and  now  a  world. 

Hope  humbly  then  ;  with  trembling  pinions  soar ; 
Wait  the  great  teacher.  Death ;  and  God  adore. 
What  future  bliss,  he  gives  not  thee  to  know. 
But  gives  that  hope  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast : 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  bless'd  : 
The  soul,  uneasy,  and  confined  from  home, 
Rests  and  expatiates  on  a  life  to  come. 

Lo,  the  poor  Indian !  whose  untutor'd  mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind ; 


232  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

His  soul  proud  science  never  taught  to  stray 
Far  as  the  solar  walk,  or  milky  way ; 
Yet  simple  nature  to  his  hope  has  given, 
Behind  the  cloud-topp'd  hill,  an  humbler  heaven  ; 
Some  safer  world  in  depth  of  woods  embraced, 
Some  happier  island  in  the  watery  waste, 
Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  behold. 
No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold. 
To  be,  contents  his  natural  desire, 
He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire ; 
But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky. 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company. 

IV.   Go  wiser  thou  !  and  in  thy  scale  of  sense, 
Weigh  thy  opinion  against  Providence ; 
Call  imperfection  what  thou  fanciest  such ; 
Say,  here  he  gives  too  little,  there  too  much : 
Destroy  all  creatures  for  thy  sport  or  gust, 
Yet  say,  if  man  's  unhappy,  God  's  unjust : 
If  man  alone  engross  not  Heaven's  high  care, 
Alone  made  perfect  here,  immortal  there  : 
Snatch  from  his  hand  the  balance  and  the  rod. 
Re-judge  his  justice,  be  the  god  of  God. 
In  pride,  in  reasoning  pride,  our  error  lies ; 
All  quit  the  sphere,  and  rush  into  the  skies. 
Pride  still  is  aiming  at  the  bless'd  abodes. 
Men  would  be  angels,  angels  would  be  gods. 
Aspiring  to  be  gods,  if  angels  fell. 
Aspiring  to  be  angels,  men  rebel  : 
And  who  but  wishes  to  invert  the  laws 
Of  order,  sins  against  the  Eternal  Cause, 


ALEXANDER  POPE.  233 

V.  Ask  for  what  end  the  heavenly  bodies  shine, 
Earth  for  whose  use  ?     Pride  answers,  '  'T  is  for  mine. 
For  me  kind  Nature  wakes  her  genial  power ; 
Suckles  each  herb,  and  spreads  out  every  flower ; 
Annual  for  me,  the  grape,  the  rose,  renew 
The  juice  nectareous,  and  the  balmy  dew ; 
For  me,  the  mine  a  thousand  treasures  brings ; 
For  me,  health  gushes  from  a  thousand  springs ; 
Seas  roll  to  waft  me,  suns  to  light  me  rise ; 
My  foot-stool  earth,  my  canopy  the  skies.' 

But  errs  not  nature  from  this  gracious  end. 
From  burning  suns  when  livid  deaths  descend, 
When  earthquakes  swallow,  or  when  tempests  sweep 
Towns  to  one  grave,  whole  nations  to  the  deep  } 
"No,"  'tis  replied,  "the  first  Almighty  Cause 
Acts  not  by  partial,  but  by  general  laws ; 
The  exceptions  few ;  some  change  since  all  began 
And  what  created  perfect }  "  — Why  then  man  } 
If  the  great  end  be  human  happiness, 
Then  nature  deviates ;  and  can  man  do  less  .'* 
As  much  that  end  a  constant  course  requires 
Of  showers  and  sun-shine,  as  of  man's  desires  .-• 
As  much  eternal  springs  and  cloudless  skies, 
As  men  for  ever  temperate,  calm,  and  wise. 
If  plagues  or  earthquakes  break  not  Heaven's  design, 
Why  then  a  Borgia,  or  a  Catiline .? 
Who  knows,  but  he  whose  hand  the  lightning  forms, 
Who  heaves  old  Ocean,  and  who  wings  the  storms. 
Pours  fierce  ambition  in  a  Caesar's  mind, 
Or  turns  young  Ammon  loose  to  scourge  mankind  .-* 


234  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

From  pride,  from  pride,  our  very  reasoning  springs  ; 
Account  for  moral  as  for  natural  things  : 
Why  charge  we  Heaven  in  those,  in  these  acquit, 
In  both,  to  reason  right,  is  to  submit. 

Better  for  us,  perhaps,  it  might  appear, 
Were  there  all  harmony,  all  virtue  here ; 
That  never  air  or  ocean  felt  the  wind, 
That  never  passion  discomposed  the  mind. 
But  all  subsists  by  elemental  strife  ; 
And  passions  are  the  elements  of  life. 
The  general  order  since  the  whole  began. 
Is  kept  in  nature,  and  is  kept  in  man. 

VI.   What  would  this  man  .''   Now  upward  will  he  soar 
And,  little  less  than  angel,  would  be  more ; 
Now  looking  downwards,  just  as  grieved  appears 
To  want  the  strength  of  bulls,  the  fur  of  bears. 
Made  for  his  use  all  creatures  if  he  call. 
Say  what  their  use,  had  he  the  powers  of  all } 
Nature  to  these,  without  profusion,  kind, 
The  proper  organs,  proper  powers  assign'd ; 
Each  seeming  want  compensated;  of  course. 
Here  with  degrees  of  swiftness,  there  of  force  ; 
All  in  exact  proportion  to  the  state ; 
Nothin:^  to  add,  and  nothing  to  abate. 
Each  oeast,  each  insect,  happy  in  its  own  : 
Is  H  aven  unkind  to  man,  and  man  alone.-* 
Shal:  he  alone,  whom  rational  we  call. 
Be  pleased  with  nothing,  if  not  bless'd  with  all  .■* 

The  bliss  of  man  (could  pride  that  blessing  find) 
Is  not  to  act  or  think  beyond  mankind ; 


ALEXANDER  POPE.  235 

No  powers  of  body  or  of  soul  to  share, 

But  what  his  nature  and  his  state  can  bear. 

Why  has  not  man  a  microscopic  eye  ? 

For  this  plain  reason,  man  is  not  a  fly. 

Say  what  the  use,  were  finer  optics  given, 

To  inspect  a  mite,  not  comprehend  the  heaven  ? 

Or  touch,  if  tremblingly  alive  all  o'er. 

To  smart  and  agonize  at  every  pore  ? 

Or  quick  effluvia  darting  through  the  brain, 

Die  of  a  rose  in  aromatic  pain  ? 

If  Nature  thunder'd  in  his  opening  ears, 

And  stunn'd  him  with  the  music  of  the  spheres, 

How  would  he  wish  that  Heaven  had  left  him  still 

The  whispering  zephyr,  and  the  purling  rill  ! 

Who  finds  not  Providence  all  good  and  wise, 

Alike  in  what  it  gives,  and  what  denies  ? 

Vn.^Far  as  creation's  ample  range  extends, 
The  scale  of  sensual,  mental,  powers  ascends : 
Mark  how  it  mounts  to  man's  imperial  race, 
From  the  green  myriads  in  the  peopled  grass  : 
What  modes  of  sight  betwixt  each  wide  extreme. 
The  mole's  dim  curtain,  and  the  lynx's  beam  ; 
Of  smell,  the  headlong  lioness  between. 
And  hound  sagacious  on  the  tainted  green ; 
Of  hearing,  from  the  life  that  fills  the  flood. 
To  that  which  warbles  through  the  vernal  wood  ! 
The  spider's  touch  how  exquisitely  fine  ! 
Feels  at  each  thread,  and  lives  along  the  line  : 
In  the  nice  bee,  what  sense  so  subtly  true, 
From  poisonous  herbs  extracts  the  healing  dew  ! 


236  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

How  instinct  varies  in  the  grovelling  swine, 
Compared,  half-reasoning  elephant,  with  thine 
'Twixt  that  and  reason  what  nice  barrier  ; 
For  ever  separate,  yet  for  ever  near  ! 
Remembrance  and  reflection  how  allied ; 
What  thin  partitions  sense  from  thought  divide  ! 
And  middle  natures,  how  they  long  to  join, 
Yet  never  pass  the  insuperable  line  ! 
Without  this  just  gradation,  could  they  be 
Subjected,  these  to  those,  or  all  to  thee  ? 
The  powers  of  all  subdued  by  thee  alone. 
Is  not  thy  reason  all  these  powers  in  one  ? 

VIII.   See,  through  this  air,  this  ocean,  and  this  earth. 
All  matter  quick,  and  bursting  into  birth. 
Above,  how  high  progressive  life  may  go  ! 
Around,  how  wide  !  how  deep  extend  below  ! 
Vast  chain  of  being !  which  from  God  began, 
Natures  ethereal,  human,  angel,  man, 
Beast,  bird,  fish,  insect,  which  no  eye  can  see, 
No  glass  can  reach  ;  from  infinite  to  thee  ; 
From  thee  to  nothing.  —  On  superior  powers 
Were  we  to  press,  inferior  might  on  ours  ; 
Or  in  the  full  creation  leave  a  void. 
Where,  one  step  broken,  the  great  scale  's  destroy'd  : 
From  nature's  chain  whatever  link  you  strike. 
Tenth,  or  ten  thousandth,  breaks  the  chain  alike. 

And,  if  each  system  in  gradation  roll 
Alike  essential  to  the  amazing  whole. 
The  least  confusion,  but  in  one,  not  all 
That  system  only,  but  the  whole  must  fall. 


ALEXANDER  POPE.  237 

Let  earth  unbalanced  from  her  orbit  fly, 
Planets  and  suns  run  lawless  through  the  sky ; 
Let  ruling  angels  from  their  spheres  be  hurl'd, 
Being  on  being  wreck'd,  and  world  on  world  ; 
Heaven's  whole  foundations  to  their  centre  nod 
And  nature  trembles  to  the  throne  of  God. 
All  this  dread  order  break  —  for  whom  ?  for  thee  ? 
Vile  worm  !  —  oh  madness  !  pride  !  impiety  ! 

IX.  What  if  the  foot,  ordain'd  the  dust  to  tread, 
Or  hand,  to  toil,  aspired  to  be  the  head  .'' 
What  if  the  head,  the  eye,  or  ear,  repined 
To  serve  mere  engines  to  the  ruling  mind  .■* 
Just  as  absurd  for  any  part  to  claim 
To  be  another  in  this  general  frame  : 
Just  as  absurd,  to  mourn  the  task  or  pains 
The  great  directing  Mind  of  all  ordains. 

All  are  but  .parts  of  one  stupendous  whole, 
Whose  body  Nature  is,  and  God  the  soul ; 
That,  changed  through  all,  and  yet  in  all  the  same, 
Great  in  the  earth,  as  in  the  ethereal  frame ; 
Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze, 
Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees  ; 
Lives  through  all  life,  extends  through  all  extent, 
Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent ; 
Breathes  in  our  soul,  informs  our  mortal  part, 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart ; 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  man  that  mourns. 
As  the  rapt  seraph  that  adores  and  burns  : 
To  him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small ; 
He  fills,  he  bounds,  connects,  and  equals  all. 


238  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

X.   Cease  then,  nor  order  imperfection  name : 
Our  proper  bliss  depends  on  what  we  blame. 
Know  thy  own  point :  this  kind,  this  due  degree 
Of  blindness,  weakness,  Heaven  bestows  on  thee. 
Submit.  —  In  this,  or  any  other  sphere, 
Secure  to  be  as  bless'd  as  thou  canst  bear : 
Safe  in  the  hand  of  one  disposing  Power, 
Or  in  the  natal,  or  the  mortal  hour. 
All  nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to  thee ; 
All  chance,  direction  which  thou  canst  not  see : 
All  discord,  harmony  not  understood ; 
All  partial  evil,  universal  good. 
And,  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite, 
One  truth  is  clear.  Whatever  is,  is  right. 


THE    RAPE   OF    THE   LOCK. 

F}'om 
CANTO  II. 

Not  with  more  glories,  in  the  ethereal  plain. 

The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled  main, 

Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams 

Launch'd  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver'd  Thames. 

Fair  nymphs  and  well-dress'd  youths  around  her  shone, 

But  every  eye  was  fix'd  on  her  alone. 

On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore, 

Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels  adore. 


ALEXANDER  POPE.  239 

Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfix'd  as  those : 
Favours  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends  ; 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike. 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride, 
Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults  to  hide  : 
If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall. 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you  '11  forget  them  all. 


THE   UNIVERSAL    PRAYER. 

Father  of  all !  in  every  age, 

In  every  clime  adored, 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord  ! 

Thou  Great  First  Cause,  least  understood  ; 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this.  That  thou  art  good. 

And  that  myself  am  blind  ; 

Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate, 

To  see  the  good  from  ill ; 
And,  binding  Nature  fast  in  Fate, 

Left  free  the  human  will : 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done. 
Or  warns  me  not  to  do. 


240  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

This,  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun, 
That,  more  than  heaven  pursue. 

What  blessings  thy  free  bounty  gives, 

Let  me  not  cast  away ; 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives : 

To  enjoy  is  to  obey. 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 
Thy  goodness  let  me  bound, 

Or  think  thee  Lord  alone  of  man. 
When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 

Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 
Presume  thy  bolts  to  throw. 

And  deal  damnation  round  the  land, 
On  each  I  judge  thy  foe. 

If  I  am  right,  thy  grace  impart. 

Still  in  the  right  to  stay : 
If  I  am  wrong,  O  touch  my  heart 

To  find  that  better  way. 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride, 

Or  impious  discontent, 
At  aught  thy  wisdom  has  denied, 

Or  aught  thy  goodness  lent. 

Teach  me  to  feel  another's  wo, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see  : 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me. 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  241 

Mean  though  I  am,  not  wholly  so, 

Since  quicken'd  by  thy  breath  ; 
O  lead  me,  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

Through  this  day's  life  or  death. 

This  day,  be  bread  and  peace  my  lot : 

All  else  beneath  the  sun. 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestow'd  or  not, 

And  let  thy  will  be  done. 

To  thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space. 

Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies ! 
One  chorus  let  all  beings  raise ! 

All  Nature's  incense  rise  ! 


THE   DUNCIAD. 

From    ■ 
BOOK   IV. 

In  vain,  in  vain,  the  all-composing  hour 
Resistless  falls  !  the  muse  obeys  the  power. 
She  comes  !  she  comes  !  the  sable  throne  behold 
Of  night  primeval,  and  of  Chaos  old  ! 
Before  her,  fancy's  gilded  clouds  decay. 
And  all  its  varying  rainbows  die  away. 
Wit  shoots  in  vain  his  momentary  fires, 
The  meteor  drops,  and  in  a  flash  expires. 
As  one  by  one,  at  dread  Medea's  strain, 
The  sickening  stars  fade  off  the  ethereal  plain  ; 


242  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

As  Argus'  eyes,  by  Hermes'  wand  oppress'd, 
Closed  one  by  one  to  everlasting  rest ; 
Thus  at  her  felt  approach,  and  secret  might, 
Art  after  art  goes  out,  and  all  is  night : 
See  skulking  truth  to  her  old  cavern  fled. 
Mountains  of  casuistry  heap'd  o'er  her  head  ! 
Philosophy,  that  lean'd  on  Heaven  before, 
Shrinks  to  her  second  cause,  and  is  no  more. 
Physic  of  metaphysic  begs  defence, 
And  metaphysic  calls  for  aid  on  sense  ! 
See  mystery  to  mathematics  fly ! 
In  vain  !  they  gaze,  turn  giddy,  rave,  and  die. 
Religion,  blushing,  veils  her  sacred  fires. 
And  unawares  morality  expires. 
Nor  public  flame,  nor  private,  dares  to  shine  ; 
Nor  human  spark  is  left,  nor  glimpse  divine  ! 
Lo  !  thy  dread  empire.  Chaos  !  is  restored  ; 
Light  dies  before  thy  uncreating  word  : 
Thy  hand,  great  Anarch  !  lets  the  curtain  fall 
And  universal  darkness  buries  all. 


Frofu 
EPISTLE  TO    DR.  ARBUTHNOT. 

Peace  to  all  such !  but  were  there  one  whose  fires 
True  genius  kindles,  and  fair  fame  inspires ; 
Bless'd  with  each  talent  and  each  art  to  please. 
And  born  to  write,  converse,  and  live  with  ease ; 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  243 

Should  such  a  man,  too  fond  to  rule  alone, 
Bear,  like  the  Turk,  no  brother  near  the  throne, 
View  him  with  scornful,  yet  with  jealous  eyes. 
And  hate  for  arts  that  caused  himself  to  rise ; 
Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer. 
And,  without  sneering,  teach  the  rest  to  sneer; 
Willing  to  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to  strike, 
Just  hint  a  fault,  and  hesitate  dislike ; 
Alike  reserved  to  blame  or  to  commend, 
A  timorous  foe,  and  a  suspicious  friend  ; 
Dreading  e'en  fools,  by  flatterers  besieged, 
And  so  obliging  that  he  ne'er  obliged  ; 
Like  Cato,  give  his  little  senate  laws. 
And  sit  attentive  to  his  own  applause ; 
While  wits  and  Templars  every  sentence  raise, 
And  wonder  with  a  foolish  face  of  praise  — 
Who  but  must  laugh,  if  such  a  man  there  be  ? 
Who  would  not  weep,  if  Atticus  were  he  ? 


ON  A  CERTAIN  LADY  AT  COURT. 

I  KNOW  the  thing  that 's  most  uncommon  ; 

(Envy,  be  silent  and  attend!) 
I  know  a  reasonable  woman. 

Handsome  and  witty,  yet  a  friend. 

Not  warp'd  by  passion,  awed  by  rumour. 

Not  grave  through  pride,  nor  gay  through  folly. 

An  equal  mixture  of  good-humour. 
And  sensible  soft  melancholy. 


244  TWELVE   ENGLISH   POETS. 

'  Has  she  no  faults,  then,'  Envy  says,  '  sir  ? ' 
Yes,  she  has  one,  I  must  aver  : 

When  all  the  world  conspires  to  praise  her, 
The  woman  's  deaf,  and  does  not  hear. 


EPITAPH   ON    MRS.  CORBET. 

Here  rests  a  woman,  good  without  pretence, 
Blest  with  plain  reason,  and  with  sober  sense ; 
No  conquest  she,  but  o'er  herself,  desired ; 
No  arts  essay'd,  but  not  to  be  admired. 
Passion  and  pride  were  to  her  soul  unknown, 
Convinced  that  virtue  only  is  our  own. 
So  unaffected,  so  composed  a  mind, 
So  firm,  yet  soft,  so  strong,  yet  so  refined. 
Heaven,  as  its  purest  gold,  by  tortures  tried ; 
The  saint  sustain'd  it,  but  the  woman  died. 


THE   ILIAD. 

BOOK   VI. 

He  said,  and  pass'd  with  sad  presaging  heart 
To  seek  his  spouse,  his  soul's  far  dearer  part ; 
At  home  he  sought  her,  but  he  sought  in  vain 
She,  with  one  maid  of  all  her  menial  train. 
Had  thence  retired  ;  and  with  her  second  joy. 
The  young  Astyanax,  the  hope  of  Troy, 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  245 

Pensive  she  stood  on  Ilion's  towery  height, 
Beheld  the  war,  and  sicken'd  at  the  sight  ; 
There  her  sad  eyes  in  vain  her  lord  explore, 
Or  weep  the  wounds  her  bleeding  country  bore. 

But  he  who  found  not  whom  his  soul  desired, 
Whose  virtue  charm'd  him  as  her  beauty  fired, 
Stood  in  the  gates,  and  ask'd  what  way  she  bent 
Her  parting  step  ?     If  to  the  fane  she.  went, 
Where  late  the  mourning  matrons  made  resort  ; 
Or  sought  her  sisters  in  the  Trojan  court? 
Not  to  the  court  (replied  the  attendant  train). 
Nor  mix'd  with  matrons  to  Minerva's  fane  : 
To  Ilion's  steepy  tower  she  bent  her  way. 
To  mark  the  fortunes  of  the  doubtful  day. 
Troy  fled,  she  heard,  before  the  Grecian  sword 
She  heard,  and  trembled  for  her  absent  lord : 
Distracted  with  surprise,  she  seem'd  to  fly. 
Fear  on  her  cheek,  and  sorrow  in  her  eye. 
The  nurse  attended  with  her  infant  boy. 
The  young  Astyanax,  the  hope  of  Troy. 

Hector,  this  heard,  return'd  without  delay ; 
Swift  through  the  town  he  trod  his  former  way, 
Through  streets  of  palaces,  and  walks  of  state, 
And  met  the  mourner  at  the  Scaean  gate. 
With  haste  to  meet  him  sprung  the  joyful  fair. 
His  blameless  wife,  Action's  wealthy  heir  : 
(Cilician  Thebe  great  Action  sway'd, 
And  Hippoplacus'  wide  extended  shade.) 
The  nurse  stood  near,  in  whose  embraces  press'd, 
His  only  hope  hung  smiling  at  her  breast, 


246  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Whom  each  soft  charm  and  early  grace  adorn, 
Fair  as  the  new-born  star  that  gilds  the  morn. 
To  this  loved  infant  Hector  gave  the  name 
Scamandrius,  from  Scamander's  honour'd  stream  ; 
Astyanax  the  Trojans  call'd  the  boy, 
From  his  great  father,  the  defence  of  Troy. 
Silent  the  warrior  smiled,  and  pleased  resign'd 
To  tender  passions  all  his  mighty  mind  : 
His  beauteous  princess  cast  a  mournful  look, 
Hung  on  his  hand,  and  then  dejected  spoke; 
Her  bosom  labour'd  with  a  boding  sigh, 
And  the  big  tear  stood  trembling  in  her  eye. 

Too  daring  prince !  ah,  whither  dost  thou  run  .-' 
Ah,  too  forgetful  of  thy  wife  and  son ! 
And  think'st  thou  not  how  wretched  we  shall  be, 
A  widow  I,  a  helpless  orphan  he  ! 
For  sure  such  courage  length  of  life  denies, 
And  thou  must  fall,  thy  virtue's  sacrifice. 
.  Greece  in  her  single  heroes  strove  in  vain  ; 
Now  hosts  oppose  thee,  and  thou  must  be  slain  ! 
Oh  grant  me,  gods !  ere  Hector  meets  his  doom, 
All  I  can  ask  of  Heaven,  an  early  tomb ! 
So  shall  my  days  in  one  sad  tenor  run. 
And  end  with  sorrows  as  they  first  begun. 
No  parent  now  remains  my  griefs  to  share. 
No  father's  aid,  no  mother's  tender  care. 
The  fierce  Achilles  wrapp'd  our  walls  in  fire. 
Laid  Thebe  waste,  and  slew  my  warlike  sire ! 
His  fate  compassion  in  the  victor  bred  ; 
Stern  as  he  was,  he  yet  revered  the  dead. 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  247 

His  radiant  arms  preserved  from  hostile  spoil, 

And  laid  him  decent  on  the  funeral  pile  : 

Then  raised  a  mountain  where  his  bones  were  burn'd  : 

•The  mountain-nymphs  the  rural  tomb  adorn'd  : 

Jove's  sylvan  daughters  bade  their  elms  bestow 

A  barren  shade,  and  in  his  honour  grow. 

By  the  same  arm  my  seven  brave  brothers  fell ; 
In  one  sad  day  beheld  the  gates  of  hell : 
While  the  fat  herds  and  snowy  flocks  they  fed, 
Amid  their  fields  the  hapless  heroes  bled  ! 
My  mother  lived  to  bear  the  victor's  bands, 
The  queen  of  Hippoplacia's  sylvan  lands  : 
Redeem'd  too  late,  she  scarce  beheld  again 
Her  pleasing  empire  and  her  native  plain, 
When  ah  !  oppress'd  by  life-consuming  woe, 
She  fell  a  victim  to  Diana's  bow. 

Yet,  while  my  Hector  still  survives,  I  see 
My  father,  mother,  brethren,  all,  in  thee  : 
Alas  !  my  parents,  brothers,  kindred,  all 
Once  more  will  perish,  if  my  Hector  fall. 
Thy  wife,  thy  infant,  in  thy  danger  share  : 
Oh  prove  a  husband's  and  a  father'scare ! 
That  quarter  most  the  skilful  Greeks  annoy. 
Where  yon  wild  fig-trees  join  the  walls  of  Troy: 
Thou  from  this  tower  defend  the  important  post ; 
There  Agamemnon  points  his  dreadful  host, 
That  pass  Tydides,  Ajax,  strive  to  gain. 
And  there  the  vengeful  Spartan  fires  his  train. 
Thrice  our  bold  foes  the  fierce  attack  have  given, 
Or  led  by  hopes,  or  dictated  from  heaven. 


248  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Let  Others  in  the  field  their  arms  employ, 
But  stay  my  Hector  here,  and  guard  his  Troy. 

The  chief  replied  :  That  post  shall  be  ray  care, 
Not  that  alone,  but  all  the  works  of  war. 
How  would  the  sons  of  Troy,  in  arms  renown'd 
And  Troy's  proud  dames,  whose  garments  sweep  the 

ground, 
Attaint  the  lustre  of  my  former  name. 
Should  Hector  basely  quit  the  field  of  fame } 
My  early  youth  was  bred  to  martial  pains. 
My  soul  impels  me  to  the  embattled  plains  : 
Let  me  be  foremost  to  defend  the  throne, 
And  guard  my  father's  glories,  and  my  own. 
Yet  come  it  will,  the  day  decreed  by  fates  : 
(How  my  heart  trembles  while  my  tongue  relates  !) 
The  day  when  thou,  imperial  Troy !  must  bend. 
And  see  thy  warriors  fall,  thy  glories  end. 
And  yet  no  dire  presage  so  wounds  my  mind, 
My  mother's  death,  the  ruin  of  my  kind, 
Not  Priam's  hoary  hairs  defiled  with  gore, 
Not  all  my  brothers  gasping  on  the  shore, 
As  thine,  Andromache  !  thy  griefs  I  dread; 
I  see  thee  trembling,  weeping,  captive  led  ! 
In  Argive  looms  our  battles  to  design, 
And  woes,  of  which  so  large  a  part  was  thine ! 
To  bear  the  victor's  hard  commands,  or  bring 
The  weight  of  waters  from  Hyperia's  spring. 
There,  while  you  groan  beneath  the  load  of  life, 
They  cry.  Behold  the  mighty  Hector's  wife ! 
Some  haughty  Greek,  who  lives  thy  tears  to  see, 
Embitters  all  thy  woes,  by  naming  me. 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  249 

The  thoughts  of  glory  past,  and  present  shame, 
A  thousand  griefs  shall  waken  at  the  name  ! 
May  I  lie  cold  before  that  dreadful  day, 
Press'd  with  a  load  of  monumental  clay  ! 
Thy  Hector,  wrapt  in  everlasting  sleep. 
Shall  neither  hear  thee  sigh,  nor  see  thee  weep. 

Thus  having  spoke,  the  illustrious  chief  of  Troy 
Stretch'd  his  fond  arms  to  clasp  the  lovely  boy. 
The  babe  clung  crying  to  his  nurse's  breast, 
Scared  at  the  dazzling  helm  and  nodding  crest. 
With  secret  pleasure  each  fond  parent  smiled. 
And  Hector  hasted  to  relieve  his  child ; 
The  glittering  terrors  from  his  brows  unbound, 
And  placed  the  beaming  helmet  on  the  ground. 
Then  kiss'd  the  child,  and,  lifting  high  in  air, 
Thus  to  the  gods  preferr'd  a  father's  prayer : 

O  thou  !  whose  glory  fills  the  ethereal  throne. 
And  all  ye  deathless  powers  !  protect  my  son  ! 
Grant  him,  like  me,  to  purchase  just  renown. 
To  guard  the  Trojans,  to  defend  the  crown. 
Against  his  country's  foes  the  war  to  wage, 
And  rise  the  Hector  of  the  future  age ! 
So  when  triumphant  from  successful  toils 
Of  heroes  slain  he  bears  the  reeking  spoils. 
Whole  hosts  may  hail  him  with  deserved  acclaim, 
And  say.  This  chief  transcends  his  father's  fame  : 
While  pleased,  amidst  the  general  shouts  of  Troy, 
His  mother's  conscious  heart  o'erfiows  with  joy. 

He  spoke,  and  fondly  gazing  on  her  charms, 
Restored  the  pleasing  burden  to  her  arms : 


250  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Soft  on  her  fragrant  breast  the  babe  he  laid, 
Hush'd  to  repose,  and  with  a  smile  survey'd. 
The  troubled  pleasure  soon  chastised  by  fear, 
She  mingled  with  the  smile  a  tender  tear. 
The  soften'd  chief  with  kind  compassion  view'd, 
And  dried  the  falling  drops,  and  thus  pursued : 

Andromache  !  my  soul's  far  better  part ! 
Why  with  untimely  sorrows  heaves  thy  heart  ? 
No  hostile  hand  can  antedate  my  doom. 
Till  fate  condemns  me  to  the  silent  tomb. 
Fix'd  is  the  term  to  all  the  race  of  earth ; 
And  such  the  hard  condition  of  our  birth, 
No  force  can  then  resist,  no  flight  can  save ; 
All  sink  alike,  the  fearful  and  the  brave. 
No  more  —  but  hasten  to  thy  tasks  at  home, 
There  guide  the  spindle,  and  direct  the  loom  : 
Me  glory  summons  to  the  martial  scene. 
The  field  of  combat  is  the  sphere  for  men ; 
Where  heroes  war,  the  foremost  place  I  claim. 
The  first  in  danger,  as  the  first  in  fame. 

Thus  having  said,  the  glorious  chief  resumes 
His  towery  helmet  black  with  shading  plumes. 
His  princess  parts  with  a  prophetic  sigh, 
Unwilling  parts,  and  oft  reverts  her  eye, 
That  stream'd  at  every  look  :  then  moving  slow. 
Sought  her  own  palace,  and  indulged  her  woe. 
There,  while  her  tears  deplored  the  godlike  man, 
Through  all  her  train  the  soft  infection  ran, 
The  pious  maids  their  mingled  sorrows  shed. 
And  mourn  the  living  Hector,  as  the  dead. 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  251 

THE    ILIAD. 

From 
BOOK   VIII. 

Troy  yet  found  grace  before  the  Olympian  sire ; 
He  arm'd  their  hands,  and  fiU'd  their  breasts  with  fire. 
The  Greeks,  repulsed,  retreat  behind  their  wall, 
Or  in  the  trench  on  heaps  confusedly  fall. 
First  of  the  foe,  great  Hector  march'd  along, 
With  terror  clothed,  and  more  than  mortal  strong. 
As  the  bold  hound,  that  gives  the  lion  chase, 
With  beating  bosom,  and  with  eager  pace. 
Hangs  on  his  haunch,  or  fastens  on  his  heels, 
Guards  as  he  turns,  and  circles  as  he  wheels  ; 
Thus  oft  the  Grecians  turn'd,  but  still  they  flew ; 
Thus,  following  Hector,  still  the  hindmost  slew. 
When  flying  they  had  pass'd  the  trench  profound, 
And  many  a  chief  lay  gasping  on  the  ground ; 
Before  the  ships  a  desperate  stand  they  made. 
And  fired  the  troops,  and  call'd  the  gods  to  aid. 
Fierce  on  his  rattling  chariot  Hector  came  ; 
His  eyes  like  Gorgon  shot  a  sanguine  flame 
That  wither'd  all  their  host :  like  Mars  he  stood  ; 
Dire  as  the  monster,  dreadful  as  the  god ! 
Their  strong  distress  the  wife  of  Jove  survey'd  ; 
Then  pensive  thus,  to  war's  triumphant  maid  : 

Oh  daughter  of  that  god,  whose  arm  can  wield 
The  avenging  bolt,  and  shake  the  sable  shield  ! 
Now,  in  this  moment  of  her  last  despair. 


252  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Shall  wretched  Greece  no  more  confess  our  care  ? 
Condemn'd  to  suffer  the  full  force  of  fate, 
And  drain  the  dregs  of  heaven's  relentless  hate  ? 
Gods  !  shall  one  raging  hand  thus  level  all  ? 
What  numbers  fell  !  what  numbers  yet  shall  fall ! 
What  power  divine  shall  Hector's  wrath  assuage? 
Still  swells  the  slaughter,  and  still  grows  the  rage ! 

So  spake  the  imperial  regent  of  the  skies  ; 
To  whom  the  goddess  with  the  azure  eyes  : 
Long  since  had  Hector  stain'd  these  fields  with  gore, 
Stretch'd  by  some  Argive  on  his  native  shore ; 
But  He,  above,  the  sire  of  heaven,  withstands, 
Mocks  our  attempts  and  slights  our  just  demands. 
The  stubborn  god,  inflexible  and  hard. 
Forgets  my  service  and  deserved  reward  : 
Saved  I,  for  this,  his  favourite  son,  distress'd. 
By  stern  Euristheus  with  long  labours  press'd  ? 
He  begg'd,  with  tears  he  begg'd,  in  deep  dismay ; 
I  shot  from  heaven,  and  gave  his  arm  the  day. 
Oh  had  my  wisdom  known  this  dire  event. 
When  to  grim  Pluto's  gloomy  gates  he  went ; 
The  triple  dog  had  never  felt  his  chain. 
Nor  Styx  been  cross'd,  nor  hell  explored  in  vain. 
Averse  to  me  of  all  his  heaven  of  gods. 
At  Thetis'  suit  the  partial  Thunderer  nods. 
To  grace  her  gloomy,  fierce,  resenting  son, 
My  hopes  are  frustrate,  and  my  Greeks  undone. 
Some  future  day,  perhaps,  he  may  be  moved 
To  call  his  blue-eyed  maid  his  best-beloved. 
Haste,  launch  thy  chariot,  through  yon  ranks  to  ride  ; 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  253 

Myself  will  arm,  and  thunder  at  thy  side. 
Then  goddess  !  say,  shall  Hector  glory  then 
(That  terror  of  the  Greeks,  that  man  of  men,) 
When  Juno's  self,  and  Pallas  shall  appear, 
All-dreadful  in  the  crimson  walks  of  war ! 
That  mighty  Trojan  then,  on  yonder  shore, 
Expiring,  pale,  and  terrible  no  more. 
Shall  feast  the  fowls,  and  glut  the  dogs  with  gore! 

She  ceased,  and  Juno  rein'd  the  steeds  with  care; 
(Heaven's  awful  empress,  Saturn's  other  heir.) 
Pallas,  meanwhile,  her  various  veil  unbound. 
With  flowers  adorn'd,  with  art  immortal  crown'd  ; 
The  radiant  robe  her  sacred  fingers  wove. 
Floats  in  rich  waves,  and  spreads  the  court  of  Jove. 
Her  father's  arms  her  mighty  limbs  invest, 
His  cuirass  blazes  on  her  ample  breast. 
The  vigorous  power  the  trembling  car  ascends  ; 
Shook  by  her  arm,  the  massy  javelin  bends  ; 
Huge,  pondrous,  strong  !  that,  when  her  fury  burns. 
Proud  tyrants  humbles,  and  whole  hosts  o'erturns. 

Saturnia  lends  the  lash  ;  the  coursers  fly. 
Smooth  glides  the  chariot  through  the  liquid  sky. 
Heaven's  gates  spontaneous  open  to  the  powers. 
Heaven's  golden  gates,  kept  by  the  winged  Hours; 
Commission'd  in  alternate  watch  they  stand. 
The  sun's  bright  portals  and  the  skies  command ; 
Close  or  unfold  the  eternal  gates  of  day. 
Bar  heaven  with  clouds,  or  roll  those  clouds  away. 
The  sounding  hinges  ring,  the  clouds  divide ; 
Prone  down  the  steep  of  heaven  their  course  they  guide. 


254  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

But  Jove  incensed,  from  Ida's  top  survey'd, 
And  thus  enjoin'd  the  many-colour'd  maid  : 

Thaumantia!  mount  the  winds,  and  stop  their  car; 
Against  the  highest  who  shall  wage  the  war  ? 
If  furious  yet  they  dare  the  vain  debate, 
Thus  have  I  spoke,  and  what  I  speak  is  fate ; 
Their  coursers  crush'd  beneath  the  wheels  shall  lie. 
Their  car  in  fragments  scatter'd  o'er  the  sky  ! 
My  lightning  these  rebellious  shall  confound. 
And  hurl  them  flaming,  headlong  to  the  ground, 
Condemn'd  for  ten  revolving  years  to  weep 
The  wounds  impress'd  by  burning  thunder  deep. 
So  shall  Minerva  learn  to  fear  our  ire, 
Nor  dare  to  combat  hers  and  nature's  sire. 
For  Juno,  headstrong  and  imperious  still. 
She  claims  some  title  to  transgress  our  will. 

Swift  as  the  wind,  the  various-colour'd  maid 
From  Ida's  top  her  golden  wings  display'd ; 
To  great  Olympus'  shining  gates  she  flies, 
There  meets  the  chariot  rushing  down  the  skies. 
Restrains  their  progress  from  the  bright  abodes. 
And  speaks  the  mandate  of  the  sire  of  gods : 

What  frenzy,  goddesses  !  what  rage  can  move 
Celestial  minds  to  tempt  the  wrath  of  Jove ! 
Desist,  obedient  to  his  high  command  : 
This  is  his  word  :  and  know,  his  word  shall  stand. 
His  lightning  your  rebellion  shall  confound. 
And  hurl  you  headlong,  flaming  to  the  ground  : 
Your  horses  crush'd  beneath  the  wheels  shall  lie, 
Your  car  in  fragments  scatter'd  o'er  the  sky  : 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  255 

Yourselves  condemn'd  ten  rolling  years  to  weep 
The  wounds  impress'd  by  burning  thunder  deep. 
So  shall  Minerva  learn  to  fear  his  ire, 
Nor  dare  to  combat  hers  and  nature's  sire. 
For  Juno,  headstrong  and  imperious  still, 
She  claims  some  title  to  transgress  his  will : 
But  thee  what  desperate  insolence  has  driven, 
To  lift  thy  lance  against  the  king  of  heaven  } 
Then,  mounting  on  the  pinions  of  the  wind. 
She  flew ;  and  Juno  thus  her  rage  resign'd  : 

O  daughter  of  that  god,  whose  arm  can  wield 
The  avenging  bolt,  and  shake  the  dreadful  shield  ! 
No  more  let  beings  of  superior  birth 
Contend  with  Jove  for  this  low  race  of  earth. 
Triumphant  now,  now  miserably  slain. 
They  breathe  or  perish  as  the  Fates  ordain. 
But  Jove's  high  counsels  full  effect  shall  find : 
And,  ever  constant  ever  rule  mankind. 

She  spoke,  and  backward  turn'd  her  steeds  of  light, 
Adorn'd  with  manes  of  gold  and  heavenly  bright. 
The  Hours  unloosed  them,  panting  as  they  stood. 
And  heap'd  their  mangers  with  ambrosial  food. 
There  tied,  they  rest  in  high  celestial  stalls  ; 
The  chariot  propp'd  against  the  crystal  walls. 
The  pensive  goddesses,  abash'd,  controll'd. 
Mix  with  the  gods,  and  fill  their  seats  of  gold. 

And  now  the  Thunderer  meditates  his  flight 
From  Ida's  summits  to  the  Olympian  height, 
Swifter  than  thought  the  wheels  instinctive  fly, 
Flame  through  the  vast  of  air,  and  reach  the  sky. 


256  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

'Twas  Neptune's  charge  his  coursers  to  unbrace, 
And  fix  the  car  on  its  immortal  base ; 
There  stood  the  chariot,  beaming  forth  its  rays, 
Till  with  a  snowy  veil  he  screen'd  the  blaze. 
He,  whose  all-conscious  eyes  the  world  behold. 
The  eternal  Thunderer  sat  enthron'd  in  gold, 
High  heaven  the  footstool  of  his  feet  he  makes, 
And  wide  beneath  him  all  Olympus  shakes. 
Trembling  afar  the  offending  powers  appear'd. 
Confused  and  silent,  for  his  frown  they  fear'd. 
He  saw  their  soul,  and  thus  his  word  imparts  : 
Pallas  and  Juno  !  say,  why  heave  your  hearts  .-* 
Soon  was  your  battle  o'er :  proud  Troy  retired 
Before  your  face,  and  in  your  wrath  expired. 
But  know,  whoe'er  almighty  power  withstand  ! 
Unmatch'd  our  force,  unconquer'd  is  our  hand  : 
Who  shall  the  sovereign  of  the  skies  control .-' 
Not  all  the  gods  that  crown  the  starry  pole. 
Your  hearts  shall  tremble,  if  our  arms  we  take, 
And  each  immortal  nerve  with  horror  shake. 
For  thus  I  speak,  and  what  I  speak  shall  stand ; 
What  power  soe'er  provokes  our  lifted  hand, 
On  this  our  hill  no  more  shall  hold  his  place, 
Cut  off,  and  exiled  from  the  ethereal  race. 
Juno  and  Pallas  grieving  hear  the  doom, 
But  feast  their  souls  on  Ilion's  woes  to  come. 
Through  secret  anger  swell'd  Minerva's  breast, 
The  prudent  goddess  yet  her  wrath  repress'd : 
But  Juno,  impotent  of  rage,  replies  : 
What  hast  thou  said,  oh  tyrant  of  the  skies ! 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  257 

Strength  and  omnipotence  invest  thy  throne  : 

'T  is  thine  to  punish ;   ours  to  grieve  alone. 

For  Greece  we  grieve,  abandon'd  by  her  fate, 

To  drink  the  dregs  of  thy  unmeasured  hate : 

From  fields  forbidden  we  submiss  refrain, 

With  arms  unaiding  see  our  Argives  slain ; 

Yet  grant  our  counsels  still  their  breasts  may  move, 

Lest  all  should  perish  in  the  rage  of  Jove. 

The  goddess  thus  :  and  thus  the  god  replies, 
Who  swells  the  clouds,  and  blackens  all  the  skies  : 
The  morning  sun  awaked  by  loud  alarms, 
Shall  see  the  almighty  Thunderer  in  arms , 
What  heaps  of  Argives  then  shall  load  the  plain. 
Those  radiant  eyes  shall  view,  and  view  in  vain. 
Nor  shall  great  Hector  cease  the  rage  of  fight. 
The  navy  flaming,  and  thy  Greeks  in  flight, 
E'en  till  the  day,  when  certain  fates  ordain 
That  stern  Achilles  (his  Patroclus  slain) 
Shall  rise  in  vengeance,  and  lay  waste  the  plain. 
For  such  is  fate,  nor  canst  thou  turn  its  course 
With  all  thy  rage,  with  all  thy  rebel  force. 
Fly,  if  thou  wilt,  to  earth's  remotest  bound. 
Where  on  her  utmost  verge  the  seas  resound ; 
Where  cursed  lapetus  and  Saturn  dwell, 
P'ast  by  the  brink,  within  the  steams  of  hell ; 
No  sun  e'er  gilds  the  gloomy  horrors  there ; 
No  cheerful  gales  refresh  the  lazy  air ; 
There  arm  once  more  the  bold  Titanian  band  ; 
And  arm  in  vain  ;  for  what  I  will,  shall  stand. 
Now  deep  in  ocean  sunk  the  lamp  of  light, 


258  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  drew  behind  the  cloudy  veil  of  night : 

The  conquering  Trojans  mourn  his  beams  decay'd  ; 

The  Greeks  rejoicing  bless  the  friendly  shade. 

The  victors  keep  the  field  ;  and  Hector  calls 
A  martial  council  near  the  navy  walls  : 
These  to  Scamander's  bank  apart  he  led, 
Where  thinly  scatter'd  lay  the  heaps  of  dead. 
The  assembled  chiefs,  descending  on  the  ground, 
Attend  his  order,  and  their  prince  surround. 
A  massy  spear  he  bore  of  mighty  strength. 
Of  full  ten  cubits  was  the  lance's  length  ; 
The  point  was  brass,  refulgent  to  behold, 
Fix'd  to  the  wood  with  circling  rings  of  gold ; 
The  noble  Hector  on  this  lance  reclined. 
And  bending  forward,  thus  reveal'd  his  mind  : 

Ye  valiant  Trojans,  with  attention  hear ! 
Ye  Dardan  bands,  and  generous  aids,  give  ear ! 
This  day,  we  hoped,  would  wrap  in  conquering  flame 
Greece  with  her  ships,  and  crown  our  toils  with  fame. 
But  darkness  now,  to  save  the  cowards,  falls. 
And  guards  them  trembling  in  their  wooden  walls. 
Obey  the  Night,  and  use  her  peaceful  hours 
Our  steeds  to  forage,  and  refresh  our  powers. 
Straight  from  the  town  be  sheep  and  oxen  sought. 
And    strengthening    bread,    and    generous    wine    be 

brought ; 
Wide  o'er  the  field,  high  blazing  to  the  sky. 
Let  numerous  fires  the  absent  sun  supply. 
The  flaming  piles  with  plenteous  fuel  raise. 
Till  the  bright  morn  her  purple  beam  displays ; 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  259 

Lest,  in  the  silence  and  the  shades  of  night, 

Greece  in  her  sable  ships  attempt  her  flight, 

Not  unmolested  let  the  wretches  gain 

Their  lofty  decks,  or  safely  cleave  the  main; 

Some  hostile  wound  let  every  dart  bestow, 

Some  lasting  token  of  the  Phrygian  foe. 

Wounds,  that  long  hence  may  ask  their  spouses'  care. 

And  warn  their  children  from  a  Trojan  war. 

Now  through  the  circuit  of  our  Ilion  wall, 

Let  sacred  heralds  sound  the  solemn  call ; 

To  bid  the  sires,  with  hoary  honours  crown'd. 

And  beardless  youths,  our  battlements  surround. 

Firm  be  the  guard,  while  distant  lie  our  powers, 

And  let  the  matrons  hang  with  lights  the  towers : 

Lest,  under  covert  of  the  midnight  shade. 

The  insidious  foe  the  naked  town  invade. 

Suffice,  to-night,  these  orders  to  obey : 

A  nobler  charge  shall  rouse  the  dawning  day. 

The  gods,  I  trust,  shall  give  to  Hector's  hand, 

From  these  detested  foes  to  free  the  land. 

Who  plough'd,  with  fates  averse,  the  watery  way. 

For  Trojan  vultures  a  predestined  prey. 

Our  common  safety  must  be  now  the  care; 

But  soon  as  morning  paints  the  fields  of  air, 

Sheath'd  in  bright  arms  let  every  troop  engage, 

And  the  fired  fleet  behold  the  battle  racre. 

Then,  then  shall  Hector  and  Tydides  prove, 

Whose  fates  are  heaviest  in  the  scale  of  Jove. 

To-morrow's  light  (O  haste  the  glorious  morn  !) 

Shall  see  his  bloody  spoils  in  triumph  borne ; 


260  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

With  this  keen  javelin  shall  his  breast  be  gored, 
And  prostrate  heroes  bleed  around  their  lord. 
Certain  as  this,  oh  !  might  my  days  endure, 
From  age  inglorious,  and  black  death  secure ; 
So  might  my  life  and  glory  know  no  bound. 
Like  Pallas  worshipp'd,  like  the  sun  renown'd ! 
As  the  next  dawn,  the  last  they  shall  enjoy, 
Shall  crush  the  Greeks,  and  end  the  woes  of  Troy. 

The  leader  spoke.     From  all  his  host  around 
Shouts  of  applause  along  the  shores  resound. 
Each  from  the  yoke  the  smoking  steeds  untied, 
And  fix'd  their  head-stalls  to  his  chariot-side. 
Fat  sheep  and  oxen  from  the  town  are  led. 
With  generous  wine,  and  all-sustaining  bread. 
Full  hecatombs  lay  burning  on  the  shore ; 
The  winds  to  heaven  the  curling  vapours  bore. 
Ungrateful  offering  to  the  immortal  powers ! 
Whose  wrath  hung  heavy  o'er  the  Trojan  towers; 
Nor  Priam  nor  his  sons  obtain'd  their  grace  ; 
Proud  Troy  they  hated,  and  her  guilty  race. 

The  troops  exulting  sat  in  order  round. 
And  beaming  fires  illumined  all  the  ground. 
As  when  the  moon,  refulgent  lamp  of  night  ! 
O'er  heaven's  clear  azure  spreads  her  sacred  light, 
When  not  a  breath  disturbs  the  deep  serene, 
And  not  a  cloud  o'ercasts  the  solemn  scene ; 
Around  her  throne  the  vivid  planets  roll. 
And  stars  unnumber'd  gild  the  glowing  pole, 
O'er  the  dark  trees  a  yellower  verdure  shed, 
And  tip  with  silver  every  mountain's  head  ; 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  261 

Then  shine  the  vales,  the  rocks  in  prospect  rise, 
A  flood  of  glory  bursts  from  all  the  skies  : 
The  conscious  swains,  rejoicing  in  the  sight, 
Eye  the  blue  vault,  and  bless  the  useful  light. 
So  many  flames  before  proud  Ilion  blaze. 
And  lighten  glimmering  Xanthus  with  their  rays  : 
The  long  reflections  of  the  distant  fires 
Gleam  on  the  walls,  and  tremble  on  the  spires. 
A  thousand  piles  the  dusky  horrors  gild. 
And  shoot  a  shady  lustre  o'er  the  field. 
Full  fifty  guards  each  flaming  pile  attend, 
Whose  number'd  arms,  by  fits,  thick  flashes  send. 
Loud  neigh  the  coursers  o'er  their  heaps  of  corn. 
And  ardent  warriors  wait  the  rising  morn. 


VII.   OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

172S-1774. 

Once  upon  a  time,  a  century  and  a  half  ago,  on  the  banks 
of  the  river  Inny  there  stood  a  gray,  old,-  haunted  house. 
Every  night,  so  the  country-folk  said,  a  huge  goblin  climbed 
up  to  the  roof  and  kicked  away  anything  that  was  mended 
during  the  day.  At  last  it  fell  entirely  to  pieces,  and  then 
all  the  fairies  in  the  neighborhood  met  there  at  night  and 
danced  and  reveled  in  the  ruins.  Before  it  fell  quite  down, 
however,  a  piece  of  great  good  luck  came  to  it;  for  there 
was  born  in  it,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1728,  a  little  homely 
Irish  baby,  who  grew  to  be  a  very  famous  and  honored 
man. 

You  will  not  be  surprised  to  hear  that,  among  so  many 
fairies,  there  were  some  to  lay  gifts  in  his  cradle.  Many 
different  tales  are  told  us  about  these  fairies  by  Washington 
Irving,  by  Thackeray  and  others ;  but  the  one  I  like  best  to 
believe  is  that  two  came  together,  one  good  and  one  evil,  to 
whisper  fairy  counsels  into  the  little  sleeping  ear. 

The  first  gave  him  a  tender,  generous,  and  loving  heart,  a 
quick  and  intelligent  mind,  and  a  beautiful  gift  of  fancy  and 
expression  ;  she  made  him  a  poet.  But  the  bad  fairy  left 
him  a  love  of  pleasure  and  a  gift  of  laziness,  with  the  power 
to  be  less  just  than  he  was  generous.  So  through  all  his 
life  he  was  either  very  happy  or  very  wretched,  having  a 
lavish  abundance  or  groaning  under  debt.  He  gave  pleasure 
and  help  to  many,  but  he  died  alone  and  sad. 

263 


264  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

He  began  life  a  poor,  jolly,  good-natured,  shiftless  little 
Irish  boy,  marked  by  the  smallpox  and  homely  in  every  way. 
Once,  however,  when  he  was  only  eight  years  old,  he  was 
dancing  in  the  kitchen  to  the  music  of  a  fiddle,  when  the 
fiddler  called  him  "  little  yEsop."  In  an  instant  the  child 
replied,  "  Heralds,  proclaim  aloud  this  saying :  '  See  ^sop 
dancing  and  his  monkey  playing.'  "  So  you  see  the  good 
fairy  gave  him  real  Irish  wit.  He  learned  his  letters  from 
old  Paddy  Byrne,  and  grew  to  be  seventeen  years  old,  always 
full  of  capers  and  fun,  "  righteously  doing  as  little  work  as 
he  could,  robbing  orchards,  playing  ball,  and  making  his 
pocket-money  fly  whenever  fortune  sent  him  any."  His 
father  was  a  poor  Irish  gentleman  and  clergyman,  who  could 
always  raise  a  potato  and  a  sixpence  for  a  poorer  friend. 
His  uncle  Contarine  was  more  well-to-do,  and  when  the  boy 
began  to  show  some  of  the  good  fairy's  gifts,  he  sent  him  to 
Dublin  to  the  university.  Here  he  soon  won  a  prize  of 
thirty  shillings.  But  the  bad  fairy's  gift  persuaded  him  to 
spend  it  in  mischief,  and  he  went  home,  after  many  pranks 
and  adventures,  to  stay  for  two  years,  studying  for  the  min- 
istry. When  he  was  ready  to  be  ordained,  he  went  to  see 
the  Bishop,  wearing  a  pair  of  bright  scarlet  breeches,  and 
was  sent  home  in  disgrace.  By  the  aid  of  fairy  number  one, 
he  then  taught  in  a  school  for  a  year,  and  earned  thirty 
pounds,  when  lo !  fairy  number  two  persuaded  him  to  go  ofif 
on  a  pleasure  trip,  and  he  came  home  penniless  again,  riding 
on  an  old  nag,  the  last  of  all  his  possessions,  which  he  called 
"  Fiddleback."  He  managed  to  get  money  enough  to  study 
law,  and  then  to  spend  it  all  before  he  got  to  London, 
whither  he  was  bound  ;  to  get  money  enough  to  study  medi- 
cine, and  then,  instead  of  going  to  work,  to  ramble  over 
Europe  "with  a  shirt,  a  shilling,  and  a  flute,"  playing  to  the 
peasants,  who  gave  him  a  night's  lodging  in  return.     But 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  265 

the  good  fairy  is  gradually  getting  the  upper  hand.  He 
comes  back  to  London  and  begins  to  practice  medicine  in 
some  shabby  old  fine  clothes,  holding  his  hat  against  his 
velvet  coat  to  hide  its  patches.  And  now  at  length  he  dis- 
covers the  greatest  of  his  good  gifts,  —  he  begins  to  write, 
and  the  world  begins  to  listen.  He  publishes  a  poem  called 
"The  Traveller,"  then  a  simple  story  that  everybody  reads 
and  loves,  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  then  another  noble 
poem,  one  of  the  treasures  of  the  English  language.  It  is 
called  "The  Deserted  Village,"  and  describes,  under  the 
name  of  "  sweet  Auburn,"  the  pretty  village  of  Lissoy,  where 
the  author  spent  a  part  of  his  happy  Irish  boyhood.  He 
writes  many  things, —  a  history  of  Rome,  of  England,  and  of 
France ;  a  history  of  Animated  Nature  ;  a  play  called  "  The 
Good-Natured  Man,"  and  a  very  famous  and  charming 
comedy,  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  :  or.  The  Mistakes  of  a 
Night."  But  all  this  time  the  bad  fairy  has  been  at  work 
too.  Some  friends  ask  him  to  breakfast;  he  doesn't  come, 
and  when  they  go  to  look  for  him  he  has  ripped  open  his 
feather  bed  and  lies  in  the  feathers.  He  has  pawned  his 
clothes  to  help  a  beggar.  But,  meanwhile,  he  has  not  paid 
the  tailor  for  the  clothes  !  He  earns  money  and  fame  by  his 
writings,  but  he  spends  more  than  he  earns,  and  so  is  never 
at  ease.  On  the  other  hand,  the  good  fairy  has  secured  for 
him  precious  treasures, —  his  friends,  Dr.  Johnson,  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  the  great  painter,  Burke  the  great  orator.  Fox,  and 
Gibbon  the  historian,  and  others  like  them.  When  he  died, 
at  forty-six,  we  are  told  that  Burke  burst  into  tears,  and 
Reynolds  could  paint  no  more  that  day.  But  best  of  all  I 
think  it  is  to  read  that  "  the  staircase  outside  his  door  in 
Brick  Court  was  filled  with  poor,  sorrowing  people  who  had 
no  friend  but  him  they  had  come  to  weep  for,  —  outcasts  of 
that  great,  solitary,  wicked  city,  to  whom  he  had  never  for- 


266  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

gotten  to  be  kind  and  charitable."  He  never  saw  Ireland 
after  he  left  it  as  a  boy.  But  he  loved  Ireland  to  his  dying 
day,  and  he  has  made  her  loved  by  the  world  of  readers  who 
know  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  and  the  "  Deserted  Village." 
As  for  himself,  hear  what  the  great  Mr.  Thackeray  says  of 
him  :  "•  The  most  beloved  of  English  writers  —  what  a  title 
that  is  for  a  man !  "  And  this  title  he  ascribes  to  Oliver 
Goldsmith. 


POEMS 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE. 

Sweet  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheer'd  the  laboring  swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid. 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delay'd  : 
Dear,  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 
How  often  have  I  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green. 
Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene ! 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 
The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighboring  hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade. 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made ! 
How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree ; 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade. 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey'd ; 

267 


268  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  ground, 

And  slights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round  ; 

And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired ; 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 

The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face. 

While  secret  laughter  titter'd  round  the  place ; 

The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove  : 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village  !  sports,  like  these 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please ; 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed, 

These  were  thy  charms  —  but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Sweet,  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn. 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn  ! 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 
No  more  the  grassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way ; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies. 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries  : 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all. 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand. 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  269 

111  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay ; 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made ; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride. 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began. 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain'd  its  man  : 
For  him  light  Labor  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more ; 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health, 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 
But  times  are  alter'd  :  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain  ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose. 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose. 
And  every  want  to  luxury  allied. 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom. 
Those  calm  desires  that  ask'd  but  little  room. 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene, 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brighten'd  all  the  green,  — 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour. 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds. 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew. 


270  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs  —  and  God  has  given  my  share  — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown. 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down  ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close. 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose  : 
I  still  had  hopes  —  for  pride  attends  us  still  — 
Amidst  the  swains  to  shew  my  book-learn'd  skill. 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt  and  all  I  saw ; 
And  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return  and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline. 
Retreat  from  cares,  that  never  must  be  mine ! 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try. 
And,  since  't  is  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep. 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep. 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate  ; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend  ; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way ; 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  271 

And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening's  close. 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose  ; 
There,  as  I  past  with  careless  steps  and  slow. 
The  mingling  notes  came  soften'd  from  below ; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung. 
The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young ; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool. 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school ; 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind,  — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  fill'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail ; 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale. 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 
But  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing. 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring  ; 
She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn  ; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train. 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild. 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose. 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 


272  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a-year  : 

Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 

Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wish'd  to  change,  his  place ; 

Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 

By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour; 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn'd  to  prize, 

More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 

He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain ; 

The  long-remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest, 

Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ; 

The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 

Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'd ; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 

Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away, 

Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 

Shoulder'd  his  crutch,  and  show'd  how  fields  were  won. 

Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd  to  glow, 

And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  : 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt,  for  all; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies. 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  273 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismay'd, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control. 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise. 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whisper'd  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway, 
And  fools  who  came  to  scoff,  remain'd  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 
E'en  children  follow'd,  with  endearing  wile, 
And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  express'd ; 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distress'd  ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs,  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven ; 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form. 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm. 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  struggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way. 
With  blossom'd  furze,  unprofitably  gay, 
There  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule. 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view  ; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew : 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn'd  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face ; 


274  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Full  well  they  laugh'd,  with  counterfeited  glee, 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he  ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Convey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'd  : 

Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught. 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew, 
'T  was  certain  he  could  write  and  cipher  too  ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage. 
And  e'en  the  story  ran^ — that  he  could  gauge  : 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill. 
For  e'en  though  vanquish'd,  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thund'ring  sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew. 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 
But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumph'd,  is  forgot. 

Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high. 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye. 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired, 
Where  graybeard  mirth,  and  smiling  toil,  retired, 
Where  village  statesmen  talk'd  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place  : 
The  white- wash'd  wall,  the  nicely-sanded  floor. 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the  door ; 
The  chest,  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day ; 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  275 

The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  ot  goose ; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill'd  the  day. 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay ; 
While  broken  tea  cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten'd  in  a  row. 

Vain,  transitory  splendors  !     Could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall  ? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart : 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair. 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care  ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale. 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear. 
Relax  his  pond'rous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear ; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest. 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train  ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart. 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway; 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined  : 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade. 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array 'd,  — 


276  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain ; 
And,  e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart,  distrusting,  asks  if  this  be  joy  ? 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore ; 
Hoards,  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish,  abound. 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains  :  this  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss  :  the  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied ; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds  : 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth. 
Has  robb'd  the  neighboring  fields  of  half  their  growth ; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green  ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies. 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies  :  — 
While  thus  the  land,  adorn'd  for  pleasure  all. 
In  barren  splendor  feebly  waits  its  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorn'd  and  plain. 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrow'd  charm  that  dress  supplies. 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes  ; 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  277 

But  when  those  charms  are  past  —  for  charms  are  frail  — 

When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 

She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 

In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress  : 

Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betray'd  ; 

In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'd  : 

But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise. 

Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise ; 

While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band ; 

And  v^hile  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save. 

The  country  blooms  —  a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where,  then,  ah  !  where  shall  poverty  reside. 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  stray'd, 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade. 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide. 
And  e'en  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped,  what  waits  him  there  } 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creatures'  woe. 
Here  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade. 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  his  sickly  trade ; 
Here  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display, 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign. 
Here,  richly  deck'd,  admits  the  gorgeous  train  ; 


278  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 

The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 

Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy! 

Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy ! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ?  —  Ah,  turn  thine  eyes 

Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies  : 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest. 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest : 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn  : 

Now  lost  to  all  —  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 

Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head, 

And,  pinch'd  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower, 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour. 

When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel,  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest  train. 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  .-' 
E'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread ! 

Ah,  no.     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex-world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charm'd  before, 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore ; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day ; 
Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  119 

But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling ; 
Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crown'd, 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around  ; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake ; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 
And  savage  men,  more  murd'rous  still  than  they ; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove. 
That  only  shelter'd  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven  !  what  sorrows  gloom'd  that  parting  day 
That  call'd  them  from  their  native  walks  away ; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past. 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  look'd  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wish'd  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main  ; 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Return'd  and  wept,  and  still  return'd  to  weep  ! 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe ; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wish'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave  : 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms. 
And  left  a  lover's  for  her  father's  arms  : 


280  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  blest  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose, 
And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear. 
And  clasp'd  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear. 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  luxury !  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigor  not  their  own  : 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe ; 
Till,  sapp'd  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

E'en  now  the  devastation  is  begun. 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done; 
E'en  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale. 
Downward  they  move  a  melancholy  band. 
Pass  from  the  shore  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care. 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness,  are  there  ; 
And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above. 
And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 
And  thou,  sweet  poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid. 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade ; 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  2S1 

Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame ; 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried. 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride ; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so ; 
Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel. 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell ;  and  oh  !  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried. 
On  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side. 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow. 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow. 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigors  of  th'  inclement  clime  ; 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain  ; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain  ; 
Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possest, 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labor'd  mole  away; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 


From 
RETALIATION. 


Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  him  who  can, 
An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man; 


282  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

As  an  actor,  confess'd  without  rival  to  shine, 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line : 
Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart, 
The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art. 
Like  an  ill-judging  beauty,  his  colors  he  spread, 
And  beplaster'd  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 
On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting ; 
'T  was  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting. 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way. 
He  turn'd  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day : 
Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick : 
He  cast  off  his  friends,  as  a  huntsman  his  pack, 
For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could  whistle  them  back ; 
Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallow'd  what  came. 
And  the  puff  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame ; 
Till  his  relish,  grown  callous  almost  to  disease. 
Who  pepper'd  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 
But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind, 
If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 
*         *  *  * 

Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and,  to  tell  you  my  mind. 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind ; 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand, 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland: 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 
When  they  judged  without  skill,  he  was  still  hard  of 
hearing : 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  283 

When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and 

stuff, 
He  shifted  his  trumpet,  and  only  took  snuff. 


From 

THE   TRAVELLER. 

Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow, 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheldt,  or  wandering  Po, 
Or  onward,  where  the  rude  Carinthian  boor 
Against  the  houseless  stranger  shuts  the  door ; 
Or  where  Campania's  plain  forsaken  lies, 
A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies : 
Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 
My  heart  untravell'd  fondly  turns  to  thee ; 
Still  to  my  brother  turns,  with  ceaseless  pain. 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain. 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend, 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend ! 
Blest  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire ! ' 
Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair. 
And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair ! 
Blest  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crown'd. 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale ; 
Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food. 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good ! 


284  TWELVE    ENGLISH  POETS. 

But  me,  not  destined  such  delights  to  share, 
My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent,  and  care ; 
Impell'd,  with  steps  unceasing,  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good,  that  mocks  me  with  the  view 
That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies, 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies : 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 
E'en  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 
I  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour  to  spend ; 
And,  placed  on  high  above  the  storm's  career. 
Look  downward  where  a  hundred  realms  appear ; 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 
The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd's  humbler  pride. 

When  thus  Creation's  charms  around  combine. 
Amidst  the  store  should  thankless  pride  repine  .-• 
Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 
That  good  which  makes  each  humbler  bosom  vain  .-' 
Let  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 
These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man ; 
And  wiser  he,  whose  sympathetic  mind 
Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 
Ye   glittering    towns,   with   wealth    and   splendor 

crown'd ; 
Ye  fields,  where  summer  spreads  profusion  round  ; 
Ye  lakes,  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale  ; 
Ye  bending  swains,  that  dress  the  flowery  vale; 
For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine, 
Creation's  heir,  the  world  —  the  world  is  mine! 


VIII.     ROBERT   BURNS. 

1 7  59-1 796. 

In  a  long,  low  farmhouse,  the  farmhouse  of  Lochlea,  on 
the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  an  old  Scotch  peasant  lay  dying. 
After  a  look  across  his  poor  and  barren  fields,  over  the 
Carrick  hills  and  westward  to  the  sea,  he  looked  back  upon 
the  group  about  him,  his  faithful  wife  Agnes,  his  daughters 
and  his  sons,  and  said  sadly  that  for  one  of  his  children  he 
feared  —  he  feared.  "Oh,  father,"  one  of  the  boys  said, 
coming  up  to  the  bedside,  "  is  it  me  you  're  meaning  ?  "  and 
when  he  heard  the  "Ay,  it  is,"  he  turned  away  in  a  burst 
of  tears  and  sorrowful  foreboding.  The  old  peasant  was 
William  Burns,  who  saw  the  powerful  genius  and  the  weak 
will  of  his  eldest  boy,  and  feared  for  him.  This  lad  of 
twenty-three,  tall  and  strong,  though  stooping  from  too  early 
and  too  hard  work,  with  his  dark  curls  tied  behind,  and  with 
glowing,  flashing  dark  eyes,  was 

"  Robin  the  Rhymer," 

"The  Chief  Singer  of  Scottish  Song," 

"  The  National  Poet  of  Scotland," 

"The  Purifier  of  Scottish  Verse," 

"  The  Bard  of  Caledonia," 

"  The  Pride  of  Scotia's  Favored  Plains," 

"  The  First  of  Song-writers," 

"The  Ayrshire  Plowman,"  Robert  Burns. 

"An  auld  clay  biggin,"  near  the  Brig  o'  Doon  and  AUoway 
Kirk,  built  by  his  father's  own  hands,  was  the  boy's  first 

285 


286  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

home.  The  barren  farms  of  Mount  Oliphant,  Lochlea,  and 
Mossgiel,  were  the  next  that  he  knew.  For  years  he  had 
hard  work  and  scanty  food.  He  and  his  brother,  Gilbert, 
went  bareheaded  and  barefooted,  driving  the  plough,  working 
in  the  garden,  carting  coal,  and  doing  the  chief  labor  of  the 
farm.  But  the  whole  family  had  a  thirst  for  knowledge.  "At 
meal-times  they  sat,  a  spoon  in  one  hand  and  a  book  in  the 
other,"  and  fairly  drank  in  learning.  A  schoolmaster,  hired 
by  some  of  the  hard-won  shillings,  taught  them  to  read,  and 
then  they  borrowed  books,  —  the  "  Life  of  Hannibal "  from 
the  teacher,  and  the  "Life  of  Sir  William  Wallace"  from  the 
blacksmith ;  later  some  plays  of  Shakespeare ;  Pope,  and  an 
odd  copy  of  the  "Spectator."  Their  mother,  the  "thrifty, 
guid  wifie,"  had  a  sweet  voice,  and  as  she  moved  about 
her  work  she  sang  the  old  Scotch  songs  and  ballads.  Old 
Jenny,  too,  lived  in  the  family,  and  had  "the  largest  collection 
in  the  country  of  tales  and  songs  concerning  devils,  ghosts, 
fairies,  brownies,  witches,  warlocks,  spunkies,  kelpies,  giants, 
enchanted  towers,"  and  the  like.  Robert  listened  to  them  in 
the  ingleside,  and  then  hummed  and  sang  them  over  at  the 
plough. 

When  he  was  fifteen  he  worked  in  the  harvest-field  with 
"a  bonny,  sweet,  sonsy  lass,"  and  thought  to  himself  that  he 
could  sing  her  a  song  of  his  own.  So  he  began,  "Oh,  once 
I  loved  a  bonnie  lass,"  —  the  first  of  the  hundreds  of  songs 
now  known  and  sung  all  around  the  world.  Burns  would 
sing  and  repeat  his  songs  and  poems  to  Gilbert  as  they 
worked  at  the  plough.  Then  he  would  copy  them  and  put 
them  into  a  drawer  in  a  little  deal  table  in  the  attic,  where 
the  brothers  slept  together.  There  the  songs  lay  and  accu- 
mulated while  Burns  grew,  going  to  a  dancing-school  "  to 
give  his  manners  a  brush  " ;  going  to  the  coast  town  of  Irvine 
to  learn  flax-dressing,  and  coming  back  to  the  old,  hard  farm 


ROBERT  BURNS.  2^1 

life.     At  length  he  fell  in  love  with  bonny  Jean  Armour,  and 
married  her  privately;  but  misfortunes  came  thick  upon  him. 
He  had  no  money,  and  in  Irvine  he  had  learned  a  bad  lesson, 
— the  lesson  of  drinking  and  carousing  and  jolly  good  fellow- 
ship.    He  determined  to  go  to  Jamaica,  and  bethought  him- 
self to  publish  the  poetry  in  the  deal-table  drawer  to  get 
money  for  the  voyage.    A  printer  in  Kilmarnock  got  out  the 
little  volume  which  gave  to  Scotland  "The  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night,"  "Address  to  the  Deil,"  "The  Mountain  Daisy,"  "The 
Twa  Dogs,"  and  the   early  songs.     Twenty  pounds   came 
to  Burns  from  the  publisher ;   he  took  a  steerage  passage 
for  Jamaica,  and   had   just   written  his  sad  farewell   song, 
"The  Gloomy  Night  is  Gathering  Fast,"  when  a  letter  came 
from  the  famous  Dr.  Blacklock.     The  world  of  Edinburgh 
had  seen  the  modest  Kilmarnock  volume ;  the  writer  was  a 
genius,  he  must  come  and  make  himself  known.     So  away 
went  the  plough-boy  to  be  welcomed  and  feted  and  honored 
by  great  people  in  society  and  in  letters.     But  his  brief  day 
of  glory  was  soon  over.     He  could  not  resist  the  bad  habits 
of  his  Irvine  days,  and  when  in  the  next  year  he  went  again 
to  Edinburgh,  he  had  a  cold  reception,  and  came  away  for 
the  last  time  bitter  and  sad  at  heart. 

He  had  hoped  that  his  fine  friends  would  give  him  some 
practical  help,  —  an  office  or  a  pension,  — but  his  hope  was 
disappointed.  He  took  another  farm  at  EUisland,  and  there, 
with  his  bonny  Jean  and  his  bairns,  lived  for  a  few  of  his 
best  years,  writing  or  paraphrasing  many  songs  for  the  col- 
lection by  Thompson,  which  Burns  made  famous.  Then  he 
was  made  an  exciseman  and  moved  into  the  little  town  of 
Dumfries ;  was  hail-fellow-well-met  with  all  the  boon  com- 
panions of  the  place ;  would  drink  and  sing  his  merry  songs 
at  night,  and  by  day  suffer  miseries  of  remorse,  until  at  last 
on  one  unhappy  night  he  sat  down  and  fell  asleep  in  the 


288  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Street,  awoke  with  rheumatic  fever,  and  died  in  the  July  of 
1796. 

The  story  of  Burns,  "  whose  short  hfe  was  spent  in  toil 
and  penury,  and  who  died  in  the  prime  of  manhood  miser- 
able and  neglected,"  is  a  sad  one,  but  it  has  a  bright  side, 
for  his  best  ambition  was  gratified.  The  wish  he  made  as 
a  boy  that  he 

"  For  puir  auld  Scotland's  sake 
Some  useful  plan  or  book  could  make. 
Or  sing  a  sang  at  least," 

was  fulfilled.  He  made  the  book ;  it  made  England  proud 
of  Scotland.  He  sang  the  song,  and  in  it  struck  the  first 
clear  notes  in  the  new  yet  old  music  of  English  poetry, — ■ 
the  poetry  of  Nature  and  Truth,  which  was  to  take  the 
place  of  the  poetry  of  form  and  manner,  like  that  of  Pope 
and  Dryden. 

Burns  breathed  in  the  spirit  of  the  French  Revolution, 
and  then  he  wrote  the  great  song  of  "  Liberty,  Equality,  and 
Fraternity,"  "A  Man  's  a  Man  for  a'  That."  He  loved  Scot- 
land and  the  splendid  story  of  her  patriotism,  and  wrote  her 
national  song,  "  Scots  wha  ha'e."  He  studied  the  life  of  a 
simple.  God-fearing  Scotch  peasant,  and  wrote  "The  Cotter's 
Saturday  Night."  He  loved  Scotch  scenery,  and  wrote  a  hun- 
dred songs  which,  like  "  Sweet  Afton,"  and  the  "  Banks  and 
Braes  o'  Bonny  Doon,"  and  "Gala  Water,"  have  made  the 
charms  of  this  scenery  known  around  the  world.  Burns  had 
a  little  sister,  Annabella,  who  never  learned  to  write,  because, 
her  father  said,  "the  lassies  did  na'  need  to  ken  so  much"; 
but  she,  too,  had  the  music  in  her  heart,  and  used  to  get 
one  of  her  father's  farm  laborers  privately  to  write  down 
her  "sangs."  If  she  had  had  the  chance,  she  might  have 
immortalized  the  Scotch  lassies ;  but  her  brother  did  it  for 


ROBERT  BURNS.  2S9 

her,  and  all  the  world  knows  "Bonny  Lesley"  and  "High- 
land Mary  "  and  "  Lovely  Young  Jessie,"  and  a  score  of 
others.  Burns  loved  old  tradition,  fun,  and  humor,  and 
wrote  "Tarn  o'  Shanter,"  the  embodiment  of  them  all,  com- 
posed in  one  day  as  he  wandered  by  the  banks  of  the  river 
Nith,  where  he  was  found  reciting  it  aloud,  with  tears  rolling 
down  his  cheeks. 

Stirring  songs  of  loyalty  and  patriotism  ;  gay  songs  of 
jollity  and  pleasure,  tender  songs  of  affection,  thrilling 
songs  of  love,  —  these  are  what  Burns  gave  to  the  world 
in  his  thirty-seven  years  of  life.  It  is  with  these  in  mind 
that  Thomas  Carlyle,  the  son  of  another  Scotch  peasant, 
himself  another  boast  of  English  literature,  calls  him  "a 
true  poet  —  the  most  precious  gift  that  can  be  bestowed 
upon  a  generation." 


POEMS. 


TO   A    MOUSE, 

ON    TURNING    UP    HER    NEST    WITH    THE    PLOUGH. 

Wee,  sleeket,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie, 
Oh,  what  a  panic  's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle ! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  and  chase  thee, 

Wi'  murd'ring  pattle ! 

I  'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  nature's  social  union, 
And  justifies  that  ill  opinion, 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earthborn  companion, 

And  fellow-mortal ! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve ; 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live ! 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 

's  a  sma'  request : 
I  '11  get  a  blessin'  wi'  the  laive, 

And  never  miss  't ! 
290 


ROBERT  BURNS.  291 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin'  ! 
And  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage  green 
And  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin', 

Baith  snell  and  keen  ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste, 
And  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 
And  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
Till,  crash  !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  and  stibble, 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble ! 
Now  thou  's  turn'd  out  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald. 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble. 

And  cranreuch  cauld  ! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain : 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  and  men, 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 
And  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  and  pain. 

For  promis'd  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me  ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 


292  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

But,  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e, 
On  prospects  drear ! 

And  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 
I  guess  and  fear. 


THE   COTTER'S    SATURDAY    NIGHT. 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile. 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

Gray. 

My  loved,  my  honour'd,  much  respected  friend. 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays  : 
With  honest  pride  I  scorn  each  selfish  end  : 

My  dearest  meed,  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise ; 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 

The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequester'd  scene ; 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways ; 

What  Aitken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been  ; 
Ah  !  tho'  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I  ween. 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sough ; 

The  short'ning  winter-day  is  near  a  close ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh ; 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose : 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes, 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 


ROBERT  BURNS.  293 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward 
bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 
Th'  expectant  wee  things  toddlin,  stacher  thro' 

To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  flichterin'  noise  and  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin'  bonnily. 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  wifie's  smile. 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee. 

Does  a'  his  weary  carking  cares  beguile, 
And  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  and  his  toil. 

Belyve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drappin'  in, 

At  service  out  amang  the  farmers  roun', 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 

A  cannie  errand  to  a  neibor  town ; 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 

In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparklin'  in  her  e'e. 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a  bra'  new  gown. 

Or  deposit  her  sair-won  penny  fee. 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

Wi'  joy  unfeign'd  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 
And  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers : 

The  social  hours,  swift-wing'd,  unnotic'd  fleet ; 
Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears ; 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years ; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 


294  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  and  her  shears, 

Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel  's  the  new; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 

Their  master's  and  their  mistress's  command, 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey ; 
And  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  eydent  hand, 

And  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play ; 
"  And  oh  !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway ! 

And  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  and  night ! 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray. 

Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might  : 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord 
aright ! " 

But,  hark !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door, 

Jenny  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neibor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor. 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek, 
Wi'  heart-struck  anxious  care,  inquires  his  name. 

While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak  ; 
Weel  pleas'd  the  mother  hears  it  's  nae  wild  worthless 
rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben ; 

A  strappin'  youth  ;  he  taks  the  mither's  eye ; 
Blithe  Jenny  sees  the  visit 's  no  ill  ta'en ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 


ROBERT  BURNS.  295 

The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy, 

But  blate  and  laithfu',  scarce  can  weel  behave  ; 
The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 

What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an'  sae  grave  ; 
Weel  pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn  's  respected  like  the 
lave. 

Oh  happy  love  !  — where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 

Oh  heart-felt  raptures  !  bliss  beyond  compare ! 
I  've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round. 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare  — 
If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'T  is  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 

In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale. 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  ev'ning 
gale. 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 

A  wretch  !   a  villain  !  lost  to  love  and  truth  !  — 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  } 
Curse  on  his  perjur'd  arts  !  dissembling  smooth  ! 

Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exil'd  .-• 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child  '>. 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their  distraction  wild  .'' 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board. 
The  halesome  parritch,  chief  of  Scotia's  food  ; 


296  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford, 

That  'yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cood  : 

The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental  mood, 
To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain'd  kebbuck,  fell, 

And  aft  he  's  prest,  and  aft  he  ca's  it  guid ; 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell, 

How  't  was  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the  bell. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face. 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  with  patriarchal  grace. 

The  big  ha'-bible,  ance  his  father's  pride ; 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside. 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  and  bare ; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide. 

He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care; 
And  "  Let  us  worship  God  !"  he  says,  with  solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim  : 
Perhaps  Dundee's  wild  warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  o'  the  name. 
Or  noble  Elgin  beets  the  heaven-ward  flame. 

The  sweetest  far  o'  Scotia's  holy  lays : 
Compar'd  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame ; 

The  tickl'd  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page  — 
How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high  ; 


ROBERT  BURNS.  297 

Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny  ; 

Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire; 

Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire ; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme  — 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed ; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second  name, 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  head ; 
How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped, 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land  : 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished. 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand  ; 
And    heard    great     Bab'lon's .  doom    pronounced    by 
Heaven's  command. 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven's  eternal  King, 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays  : 
Hope  "springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days  : 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear. 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise. 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear; 
While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

Compar'd  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride. 
In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 


298  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

When  men  display  to  congregations  wide, 
Devotion's  ev'ry  grace,  except  the  heart ! 

The  pow'r,  incens'd,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole ; 

But,  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart. 

May  hear,  well  pleas'd,  the  language  of  the  soul ; 
And  in  His  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enrol. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest : 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay. 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request, 
That  He,  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best. 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide ; 
But,  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs, 

That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd  abroad  : 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 

"An  honest  man  's  the  noblest  work  of  God  ! " 
And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heav'nly  road. 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind. 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp.?  —  a  cumbrous  load, 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refin'd  ! 

Oh  Scotia !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent ! 


ROBERT  BURNS.  299 

Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet- content ! 

And  oh !  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 
From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile ! 

Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while. 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-lov'd  isle. 

Oh  Thou !  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 

That  stream'd  through  Wallace's  undaunted  heart. 
Who  dar'd  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 
(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  thou  art. 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward  !) 
Oh  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert ; 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot  bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard ! 


FOR    A'    THAT,    AND    A'   THAT. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty. 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that  ? 
The  coward  slave  we  pass  him  by, 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Our  toil 's  obscure,  and  a'  that, 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 

The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 


300  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS 

What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hodden  grey,  and  a'  that ; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 

A  man  's  a  man  for  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that ; 
The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that ; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He  's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that : 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

His  riband,  star,  and  a'  that. 
The  man  of  independent  mind. 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that : 
But  an  honest  man  's  aboon  his  might, 

Guid  faith  he  maunna  fa'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth. 

Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that. 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth. 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that. 


ROBERT  BURNS.  301 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

It  's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that. 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er. 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 


BRUCE'S    ADDRESS. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 
Or  to  victorie ! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now 's  the  hour; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lower ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power  - 
Chains  and  slavery ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave, 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave, 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave. 
Let  him  turn  and  flee ! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw. 
Freeman  stand,  or  Freeman  fa'. 
Let  him  follow  me  ! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 
But  they  shall  be  free ! 


302  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 
Liberty  's  in  every  blow  !  — 
Let  us  do,  or  die ! 


AULD    LANG    SYNE. 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  never  brought  to  mind  ? 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 
And  auld  lang  syne  ? 

Chorus. 
For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We  '11  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine  ; 
But  we  've  wandered  mony  a  weary  foot. 

Sin  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn, 

Frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine ; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd, 

Sin  auld  lang  syne. 

And  here  's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere, 
And  gie  's  a  hand  o'  thine ; 


ROBERT  BURNS  303 

And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid  willie-waught, 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  surely  ye  '11  be  your  pint  stoup, 

And  surely  I  '11  be  mine  ; 
And  we  '11  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne. 


MY    HEART'S    IN    THE    HIGHLANDS. 

My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here, 
My  heart  's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe  — 
My  heart  's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 

Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the  North, 
The  birth-place  of  valour,  the  country  of  worth  ; 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  ever  I  love. 


^&' 


Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  covered  with  snow ; 
Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys  below : 
Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging  woods  ; 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring  floods. 

My  heart  's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here, 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer  : 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe  — 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 


304  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

AE  FOND    KISS. 

Ae  fond  kiss  and  then  we  sever ; 
Ae  fareweel,  alas,  for  ever ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I  '11  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I  '11  wage  thee. 
Who  shall  say  that  fortune  grieves  him, 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  .'* 
Me,  nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me ; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I  '11  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy. 
But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her ; 
Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. 
Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  blindly, 
Never  met  —  or  never  parted. 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest ! 
Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure. 
Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure ! 
Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ; 
Ae  fareweel,  alas  !  for  ever  ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I  '11  pledge  thee. 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I  '11  wage  thee ! 


ROBERT  BURNS.  305 

BANNOCKS    O'    BARLEY. 

Bannocks  o'  bear  meal, 

Bannocks  o'  barley ; 
Here  's  to  the  Highlandman's 

Bannocks  o'  barley. 
Wha  in  a  brulzie 

Will  first  cry  a  parley  .-* 
Never  the  lads  wi' 

The  bannocks  o'  barley  ! 

Bannocks  o'  bear  meal, 

Bannocks  o'  barley  ; 
Here  's  to  the  lads  wi' 

The  bannocks  o'  barley  ! 
Wha  in  his  wae-days 

Were  loyal  to  Charlie  .-'  — 
Wha  but  the  lads  wi' 

The  bannocks  o'  barley  .'' 


COME   BOAT    ME   O'ER   TO    CHARLIE. 

Come  boat  me  o'er,  come  row  me  o'er, 
Come  boat  me  o'er  to  Charlie ; 

I  'II  gie  John  Ross  another  bawbee. 
To  boat  me  o'er  to  Charlie. 

We  '11  o'er  the  water  and  o'er  the  sea, 
We'll  o'er  the  water  to  Charlie; 


306  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Come  weal,  come  woe,  we  '11  gather  and  go 
And  live  or  die  wi'  Charlie. 

I  loe  weel  my  Charlie's  name 
Tho'  some  there  be  abhor  him  : 

But  oh,  to  see  auld  Nick  gaun  hame, 
And  Charlie's  faes  before  him  ! 

I  swear  and  vow  by  moon  and  stars. 
And  sun  that  shines  so  early, 

If  I  had  twenty  thousand  lives, 
I  'd  die  as  aft  for  Charlie. 


THE   GLOOMY    NIGHT    IS    GATHERING    FAST. 

The  gloomy  night  is  gath'ring  fast. 
Loud  roars  the  wild  inconstant  blast ; 
Yon  murky  cloud  is  foul  with  rain, 
I  see  it  driving  o'er  the  plain ; 
The  hunter  now  has  left  the  moor, 
The  scatter'd  coveys  meet  secure; 
While  here  I  wander,  prest  with  care. 
Along  the  lonely  banks  of  Ayr. 

The  autumn  mourns  her  rip'ning  corn, 
By  early  winter's  ravage  torn  ; 
Across  her  placid,  azure  sky. 
She  sees  the  scowling  tempest  fly : 


ROBERT  BURNS  307 

Chill  runs  my  blood  to  hear  it  rave  — 

I  think  upon  the  stormy  wave, 

Where  many  a  danger  I  must  dare,  * 

Far  from  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr. 

'T  is  not  the  surging  billow's  roar, 
'T  is  not  that  fatal  deadly  shore ; 
Tho'  death  in  every  shape  appear, 
The  wretched  have  no  more  to  fear ! 
But  round  my  heart  the  ties  are  bound, 
That  heart  transpierc'd  with  many  a  wound. 
These  bleed  afresh,  those  ties  I  tear. 
To  leave  the  bonny  banks  of  Ayr. 

Farewell  old  Coila's  hills  and  dales. 
Her  heathy  moors  and  winding  vales  ; 
The  scenes  where  wretched  fancy  roves, 
Pursuing  past,  unhappy  loves  ! 
Farewell,  my  friends  !  farewell,  my  foes  ! 
My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those  — 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare ; 
Farewell  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr ! 


THE    BANKS    O'    DOON. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 
How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair ; 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds. 
And  I  sae  weary,  f  u'  o'  care .? 


308  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS 

Thou  'It  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird, 
That  wanton'st  thro'  the  flowering  thorn  : 

Thou  minds'st  me  o'  departed  joys, 
Departed  —  never  to  return  ! 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine; 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 

And  fondly  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 
Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree ; 
And  my  fause  luver  stole  my  rose, 

But,  ah  !  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


THE   BIRKS    OF   ABERFELDY. 

Now  simmer  blinks  on  flowry  braes, 
And  o'er  the  crystal  streamlet  plays ; 
Come,  let  us  spend  the  lightsome  days 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

The  little  birdies  blythely  sing, 
While  o'er  their  heads  the  hazels  hing, 
Or  lightly  flit  on  wanton  wing 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

The  braes  ascend,  like  lofty  wa's, 
The  foamy  stream  deep-roaring  fa's, 


ROBERT  BURNS.  309 

O'erhung  wi'  fragrant  spreading  shaws, 
The  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

The  hoary  cliffs  are  crown'd  wi'  flowers, 
White  o'er  the  linns  the  burnie  pours, 
And  rising,  weets  wi'  misty  showers 
The  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Let  fortune's  gifts  at  random  flee, 
They  ne'er  shall  draw  a  wish  frae  me 
Supremely  blest  wi'  love  and  thee, 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Chorus. 
Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go. 
Will  ye  go,  will  ye  go  ; 
Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go, 
To  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy  ? 


HIGHLAND    MARY. 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry  ; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 


310  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade, 

I  clasp'd  her  to  my  bosom ! 
The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings. 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life, 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  mony  a  vow,  and  lock'd  embrace, 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender ; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again. 

We  tore  oursels  asunder ; 
But  oh  !  fell  death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early ! 
Now  green  's  the  sod,  and  cauld  's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary ! 

Oh  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly ! 
And  clos'd  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly ; 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  loe'd  me  dearly ! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


ROBERT  BURNS.  311 


A    RED,    RED    ROSE. 


Oh,  my  luve  's  like  a  red,  red  rose 

That 's  newly  sprung  in  June  : 
Oh,  my  luve  's  like  the  melodic, 

That 's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 
As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I : 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 

And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun ; 
I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear. 

While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 
And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve ! 

And  fare  thee  weel  a  while ! 
And  I  will  come  again  my  luve, 

Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 


FLOW  GENTLY,  SWEET  AFTON. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Aft  on,  among  thy  green  braes. 
Flow  gently,  I  '11  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise ; 
My  Mary  's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  thro'  the  glen. 
Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den, 


312  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Thou  green-crested  lapwing  thy  screaming  forbear, 
I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighbouring  hills. 
Far  mark'd  with  the  courses  of  clear  winding  rills  : 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high. 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below ; 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow ; 
There  oft  as  mild  evening  weeps  over  the  lea. 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides ; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave. 
As  gathering  sweet  flow'rets  she  stems  thy  clear  wave. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes. 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays ; 
My  Mary  's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream. 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 


JOHN    ANDERSON. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 
When  we  first  acquent, 

Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 
Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 


ROBERT  BURNS.      .  313 

But  now  your  brow  is  bald,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snow ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither, 
And  mony  a  canty  day,  John, 

We  've  had  wi'  ane  anither  : 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we  '11  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 


OH,    WERT   THOU    IN    THE   CAULD    BLAST. 

Oh,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea. 
My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I  'd  shelter  thee,  I  'd  shelter  thee : 
Or  did  misfortune's  bitter  storms 

Around  thee  blaw,  around  thee  blaw, 
Thy  bield  should  be  my  bosom. 

To  share  it  a',  to  share  it  a'. 

Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae  black  and  bare,  sac  black  and  bare. 

The  desert  were  a  Paradise, 

If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there : 


314  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Or  were  I  monarch  o'  the  globe, 

Wi'  thee  to  reign,  wi'  thee  to  reign, 

The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen. 


IX.     WALTER   SCOTT. 

1771-1832. 

In  a  garden  by  the  banks  of  the  Tweed,  where  its  clear 
waters  ripple  over  a  bed  of  white,  shining  pebbles,  stands 
an  old  sundial,  around  whose  stone  column  is  cut  the 
inscription  NYH  TAP  EPXETAI  —  "  For  the  night  cometh." 
"  I  must  home,  to  '  work  while  it  is  called  to-day,  for  the 
night  cometh  when  no  man  can  work ' ;  I  put  that  text  many 
years  ago  on  my  dial-stone,"  said  its  owner,  and  no  man 
ever  chose  a  more  characteristic  inscription.  Let  any  one 
who  cares  to  see  the  fruits  of  immense  talent  joined  to 
unbounded  industry,  and  to  make  friends  with  the  best- 
known  and  best-loved  of  Scotchmen,  stand  beside  this  dial 
and  look  about.  Before  him  rises  the  gray,  Gothic  pile  of 
the  mansion  of  Abbotsford,  built  where  in  bygone  years 
the  abbots  and  monks  of  Melrose  rode  their  fat  mules  in 
safety  along  the  Tweed-side  and  forded  its  swift  waters. 
Behind  it  are  the  Selkirk  hills,  and  on  every  hand  fine  trees 
planted  by  the  man  who  loved  it  and  said  of  it  in  his  jour- 
nal :  "  My  heart  clings  to  the  place  I  have  created ;  there 
is  scarce  a  tree  on  it  that  does  not  owe  its  being  to  me." 
This  journal  has  recently  been  published  entire  for  the  first 
time  since  its  closing  words  were  written  more  than  sixty 
years  ago  —  the  journal  of 

"The  Great  Unknown," 
"The  Wizard  of  the  North," 
"The  Great  Enchanter," 

315 


316  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

"  The  Mighty  Magician," 

"The  Delight  of  Generous  Boys," 

"  The  Pride  of  all  Scotchmen  "  —  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

We  learn  from  it  that  the  wizard  found  his  wand  and 
the  magician  his  magic  in  the  word  of  the  dial-stone- 
work, work,  work  !  A  little,  delicate  child,  sent  to  live  on 
a  farm,  spending  his  day  with  the  shepherd  lads  and  his 
evenings  in  listening  to  the  ballads  and  tales  of  the  country- 
side;  a  boy  at  the  high  school  in  Edinburgh,  climbing 
Arthur's  Seat  in  the  afternoons  with  his  favorite  Bishop 
Percy's  collection  of  ballads  under  his  arm  ;  beginning  at 
sixteen  to  study  law  with  his  father,  and  going  for  seven 
successive  years  in  his  holiday  to  tramp  about  the  neigh- 
boring hills  and  dales  and  study  their  folklore  at  first 
hand;  with  a  giant  memory  and  giant  endurance;  lame 
always,  but  stalwart,  big,  burly,  and  generous ;  loved  by 
most  men  and  all  animals,  —  Scott  came  to  be  thirty-three 
years  old.  He  was  married  to  a  young  French  girl,  and 
lived  in  the  pretty  country  house  of  Ashestiel,  was  "  sheriff- 
depute  "  of  Selkirk  and  clerk  of  the  session,  and  known 
only  as  an  honorable  Scotch  gentleman.  Then  in  1804  he 
published  his  "  Border  Minstrelsy,"  which  made  him  widely 
known  as  a  scholar,  a  critic,  and  an  antiquarian.  Three 
years  later  all  Scotland  was  ringing  with  a  story  in  verse  — 
in  spirited,  easy,  flowing  verse,  new  in  English  poetry  — 
called  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel."  The  applause  had 
not  died  away  when  it  was  followed  by  another  and  greater 
story,  or  metrical  romance,  as  it  was  called,  —  the  world- 
famous  "  Marmion  " ;  and  then  came  "  The  Lady  of  the 
Lake  "  to  crown  the  fame  of  the  new  poet.  Wealth  and 
honors  began  to  pour  in  upon  him.  He  had  a  great  ambi- 
tion to  found  a  family  ;  or,  rather,  — for  he  was  the  descend- 


WALTER  SCOTT.  317 

ant  of  the  good  old  Scotts  of  Harden,  —  to  keep  up  a  family 
name  and  honors.  So  he  bought  and  laid  out  the  domain 
and  built  the  mansion  of  Abbotsford.  Here  he  lived  like  a 
prince,  his  house  filled  with  guests  and  his  retainers  many ; 
getting  up  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  make  his  slave 
of  the  lamp,  his  pen,  do  his  magic  work  as  he  wrote 
"Don  Roderick,"  "The  Bridal  of  Triermain,"  the  "Life  of 
Dryden,"  and  "The  Lord  of  the  Isles."  Then  his  popu- 
larity began  to  wane.  There  was  another  new  poet  — 
Byron  —  to  be  worshiped,  and  Scott's  star  was  no  longer 
in  the  ascendant.  Suddenly  there  appeared  anonymously 
a  novel,  a  Jacobite  story  of  Scottish  life  and  manners 
"  Sixty  Years  Since."  No  one  who  could  read,  read  or 
talked  of  anything  but  "  Waverley."  "  My  opinion  of  it," 
Lord  Holland  said,  "  why,  man,  none  of  us  went  to  bed 
that  night,  and  nothing  but  my  gout  slept !  "  No  one  knew, 
though  many  suspected,  that  "  The  Great  Unknown  "  was 
the  great  Walter  Scott.  "The  Antiquary,"  "The  Heart 
of  Midlothian,"  "  Kenilworth,"  "  Quentin  Durward,"  "St. 
Ronan's  Well,"  "  Ivanhoe,"  "  The  Betrothed,"  "  The  Talis- 
man," all  the  long  and  brilliant  line  of  the  Waverley  Novels, 
twenty-three  in  number,  appeared  in  fourteen  years. 

From  1814  to  1825  Scott  was  at  the  height  of  his  career 
—  the  first  baronet  made  by  George  the  Fourth  when  he 
came  to  the  throne,  with  a  splendid  fortune,  a  splendid 
fame,  and  with  "honor,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends." 
Among  these  friends  were  his  printer,  James  Ballantyne, 
whom  he  had  nicknamed  "  Aldiborontephoscophornio,"  and 
his  publisher,  John  Ballantyne,  or  "  Rigdum  Funnidos." 
Unknown  to  any  one,  Scott  had  years  before  formed  a 
partnership  with  first  one  brother  and  then  the  other,  and 
had  become  involved  with  Constable,  the  London  publisher. 
Suddenly  there  came  a  financial  crash,  and  Scott  found  him- 


318  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

self  ruined,  and  in  debt  for  a  hundred  and  thirty  thousand 
pounds.  The  "Journal"  gives  a  pathetic  account  of  his 
stunned  and  dazed  feeHng ;  his  scorn  at  the  idea  of  being 
declared  a  bankrupt ;  his  brave  and  immediate  resolution  that 
no  one  should  lose  a  penny  by  him.  "  I  feel  like  the  Eldon 
hills,"  he  said,  "quite  firm,  if  a  little  cloudy.  Something 
in  my  breast  tells  me  my  evil  genius  vi^ill  not  overwhelm 
me  if  I  stand  by  myself.  Well,  exertion,  exertion  !  O 
Invention,  rouse  thyself  !  May  man  be  kind  —  may  God 
be  propitious.  I  must  say  to  the  Muse  of  Fiction  :  '  Go 
spin,  you  jade;  go  spin!'  God  help  —  no,  God  bless  me! 
Every  man  must  help  himself."  So  the  busy  pen  was 
driven  more  busily,  and  Scott  mortgaged  his  imagination, 
his  time,  his  life  itself,  to  pay  his  debts  of  honor.  In  three 
years  he  wrote  six  novels,  "The  Tales  of  a  Grandfather" 
and  "The  Life  of  Napoleon,"  and  earned  forty  thousand 
pounds  for  his  creditors.  He  had  a  stroke  of  paralysis,  but 
toiled  on  again  after  it  until  at  last  flesh  and  blood  gave 
way.  He  was  taken  to  Italy  by  his  daughter,  but  too  late 
to  help  him,  and  he  hastened  home  to  Abbotsford  to  die, 
surrounded  by  his  children,  his  much-loved  son-in-law  and 
biographer,  John  Lockhart,  among  them,  and  by  his  old 
and  faithful  domestics,  whom  no  change  of  fortune  could 
ever  drive  away  from  him,  and  who  said,  "  Sir  Walter  always 
spoke  to  us  as  if  we  were  blood  relations."  He  had  at  the 
last  a  happy  delusion  that  he  had  succeeded  in  paying  all 
his  debts,  and,  indeed,  he  did  so,  for  in  a  few  years  after- 
ward the  entire  amount  was  paid  by  the  profits  on  his 
works. 

The  critics  have  been  busy  for  half  a  century  now,  trying 
to  decide  whether  Scott's  poems,  "  with  the  quick,  metrical 
tramp  of  his  own  moss-troopers,"  are  great  poems,  and 
whether    Scott's   novels  —  those    books    w^hich    taught   the 


WALTER   SCOTT.  319 

Scotch  their  own  history  and  made  Scotland  interesting 
and  lovely  to  the  world,  books  which  have  cheered  and 
delighted  thousands  upon  thousands  of  readers  —  are  great 
novels.  It  would  be  a  sorry  day  for  any  boy  who  waited 
for  their  decision.  Let  him  read  "  Marmion "  and  the 
"Lady  of  the  Lake,"  and  then  "The  Heart  of  Midlo- 
thian," "  Quentin  Durward,"  "  Kenilworth,"  "  Ivanhoe,"  and 
"The  Talisman,"  and  afterward  the  "Journal."  He  will 
not  much  care,  then,  to  know  if  the  critics  finally  decide 
that  Scott  is  great,  remembering  that  "  Great  names  live 
in  the  world's  respect ;  Scott's  will  live  forever  in  its 
affection." 


POEMS. 


From 
LAY   OF   THE   LAST   MINSTREL. 

The  Introduction. 

The  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold, 
The  Minstrel  was  infirm  and  old ; 
His  wither'd  cheek,  and  tresses  gray, 
Seem'd  to  have  known  a  better  day ; 
The  harp,  his  sole  remaining  joy, 
Was  carried  by  an  orphan  boy. 
The  last  of  all  the  Bards  was  he, 
Who  sung  of  Border  chivalry  ; 
For,  welladay !  their  date  was  fled, 
His  tuneful  brethren  all  were  dead ; 
And  he,  neglected  and  oppress'd, 
Wish'd  to  be  with  them,  and  at  rest. 
No  more  on  prancing  palfrey  borne. 
He  caroll'd,  light  as  lark  at  morn  ; 
No  longer  courted  and  caress'd. 
High  placed  in  hall,  a  welcome  guest, 
He  pour'd,  to  lord  and  lady  gay. 
The  unpremeditated  lay  : 

320 


WALTER   SCOTT.  321 

Old  times  were  changed,  old  manners  gone ; 
A  stranger  filled  the  Stuarts'  throne  ; 
The  bigots  of  the  iron  time 
Had  call'd  his  harmless  art  a  crime. 
A  wandering  Harper,  scorn'd  and  poor. 
He  begg'd  his  bread  from  door  to  door, 
And  tuned,  to  please  a  peasant's  ear. 
The  harp,  a  king  had  loved  to  hear. 

He  pass'd  where  Newark's  stately  tower 
Looks  out  from  Yarrow's  birchen  bower : 
The  Minstrel  gazed  with  wishful  eye  — 
No  humbler  resting-place  was  nigh. 
With  hesitating  step  at  last. 
The  embattled  portal  arch  he  pass'd. 
Whose  ponderous  grate  and  massy  bar 
Had  oft  roll'd  back  the  tide  of  war. 
But  never  closed  the  iron  door 
Against  the  desolate  and  poor. 
The  Duchess  marked  his  weary  pace, 
His  timid  mien,  and  reverend  face. 
And  bade  her  page  the  menials  tell, 
That  they  should  tend  the  old  man  well  : 
For  she  had  known  adversity, 
Though  born  in  such  a  high  degree ; 
In  pride  of  power,  in  beauty's  bloom. 
Had  wept  o'er  Monmouth's  bloody  tomb! 

When  kindness  had  his  wants  supplied, 
And  the  old  man  was  gratified, 


322  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Began  to  rise  his  minstrel  pride  : 

And  he  began  to  talk  anon, 

Of  good  Earl  Francis,  dead  and  gone, 

And  of  Earl  Walter,  rest  him,  God  ! 

A  braver  ne'er  to  battle  rode  ; 

And  how  full  many  a  tale  he  knew, 

Of  the  old  warriors  of  Buccleuch  : 

And,  would  the  noble  Duchess  deign 

To  listen  to  an  old  man's  strain. 

Though  stiff  his  hand,  his  voice  though  weak, 

He  thought  even  yet,  the  sooth  to  speak, 

That,  if  she  loved  the  harp  to  hear, 

He  could  make  music  to  her  ear. 

The  humble  boon  was  soon  obtain'd ; 
The  Aged  Minstrel  audience  gain'd. 
But,  when  he  reach'd  the  room  of  state, 
Where  she,  with  all  her  ladies,  sate. 
Perchance  he  wished  his  boon  denied  : 
For,  when  to  tune  his  harp  he  tried. 
His  trembling  hand  had  lost  the  ease. 
Which  marks  security  to  please ; 
And  scenes,  long  past,  of  joy  and  pain, 
Came  wildering  o'er  his  aged  brain  — 
He  tried  to  tune  his  harp  in  vain  ! 
The  pitying  Duchess  praised  its  chime, 
And  gave  him  heart,  and  gave  him  time. 
Till  every  string's  according  glee 
Was  blended  into  harmony. 
And  then,  he  said,  he  would  full  fain 


WALTER   SCOTT.  323 

He  could  recall  an  ancient  strain, 

He  never  thought  to  sing  again. 

It  was  not  framed  for  village  churls, 

But  for  high  dames  and  mighty  earls  ; 

He  had  play'd  it  to  King  Charles  the  Good, 

When  he  kept  court  in  Holyrood  ; 

And  much  he  wish'd,  yet  fear'd  to  try 

The  long-forgotten  melody. 

Amid  the  strings  his  fingers  stray'd. 

And  an  uncertain  warbling  made. 

And  oft  he  shook  his  hoary  head. 

But  when  he  caught  the  measure  wild. 

The  old  man  raised  his  face,  and  smiled ; 

And  lighten'd  up  his  faded  eye. 

With  all  a  poet's  ecstasy ! 

In  varying  cadence,  soft  or  strong. 

He  swept  the  sounding  chords  along : 

The  present  scene,  the  future  lot. 

His  toils,  his  wants,  were  all  forgot : 

Cold  diffidence,  and  age's  frost. 

In  the  full  tide  of  song  were  lost ; 

Each  blank  in  faithless  memory  void. 

The  poet's  glowing  thought  supplied  ; 

And,  while  his  harp  responsive  rung, 

'T  was  thus  the  Latest  Minstrel  sung. 


324  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

From 
MARMION. 

CANTO   VI. 

The  Battle. 

That  night,  upon  the  rocks  and  bay, 
The  midnight  moon-beam  slumbering  lay, 
And  pour'd  its  silver  light,  and  pure, 
Through  loop-hole,  and  through  embrazure, 

Upon  Tantallon  tower  and  hall ; 
But  chief  where  arched  windows  wide 
Illuminate  the  chapel's  pride, 

The  sober  glances  fall. 
Much  was  their  need  ;  though  seam'd  with  scars, 
Two  veterans  of  the  Douglas'  wars. 

Though  two  grey  priests  were  there. 
And  each  a  blazing  torch  held  high, 
You  could  not  by  their  blaze  descry 

The  chapel's  carving  fair. 
Amid  that  dim  and  smoky  light. 
Chequering  the  silver  moon-shine  bright, 

A  bishop  by  the  altar  stood, 
.    A  noble  lord  of  Douglas  blood. 
With  mitre  sheen,  and  rocquet  white. 
Yet  show'd  his  meek  and  thoughtful  eye 
But  little  pride  of  prelacy ; 
More  pleased  that,  in  a  barbarous  age, 
He  gave  rude  Scotland  Virgil's  page. 


WALTER  SCOTT.  325 

Than  that  beneath  his  rule  he  held 
The  bishopric  of  fair  Dunkeld. 
Beside  him  ancient  Angus  stood, 
Doff'd  his  furr'd  gown,  and  sable  hood : 
O'er  his  huge  form  and  visage  p3,le, 
He  wore  a  cap  and  shirt  of  mail ; 
And  lean'd  his  large  and  wrinkled  hand 
Upon  the  huge  and  sweeping  brand 
Which  wont  of  yore,  in  battle  fray, 
His  foeman's  limbs  to  shred  away, 
As  wood-knife  lops  the  sapling  spray. 

He  seem'd  as,  from  the  tombs  around 
Rising  at  judgment-day, 

Some  giant  Douglas  may  be  found 
In  all  his  old  array ; 
So  pale  his  face,  so  huge  his  limb, 
So  old  his  arms,  his  look  so  grim. 

Then  at  the  altar  Wilton  kneels, 
And  Clare  the  spurs  bound  on  his  heels ; 
And  think  what  next  he  must  have  felt, 
At  buckling  of  the  falchion  belt ! 

And  judge  how  Clara  changed  her  hue, 
While  fastening  to  her  lover's  side 
A  friend,  which,  though  in  danger  tried. 

He  once  had  found  untrue  ! 
Then  Douglas  struck  him  with  his  blade  : 
"  Saint  Michael  and  Saint  Andrew  aid, 

I  dub  thee  knight. 
Arise,  Sir  Ralph,  De  Wilton's  heir  ! 


326  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

For  King,  for  Church,  for  Lady  fair, 

See  that  thou  fight."- — 
And  Bishop  Gawain,  as  he  rose, 
Said  —  "  Wilton  !  grieve  not  for  thy  woes, 

Disgrace,  and  trouble  : 
For  He,  who  honour  best  bestows, 

May  give  thee  double." 
De  Wilton  sobb'd,  for  sob  he  must  — 
"  Where'er  I  meet  a  Douglas,  trust 

That  Douglas  is  my  brother  !  "  — 
"Nay,  nay,"  old  Angus  said,  "not  so; 
To  Surrey's  camp  thou  now  must  go, 

Thy  wrongs  no  longer  smother. 
I  have  two  sons  in  yonder  field  ; 
And,  if  thou  meet'st  them  under  shield, 
Upon  them  bravely  —  do  thy  worst ; 
And  foul  fall  him  that  blenches  first  ! " 

Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day. 
When  Marmion  did  his  troop  array 

To  Surrey's  camp  to  ride ; 
He  had  safe  conduct  for  his  band, 
Beneath  the  royal  seal  and  hand. 

And  Douglas  gave  a  guide : 
The  ancient  Earl,  with  stately  grace. 
Would  Clara  on  her  palfrey  place, 
And  whisper'd  in  an  under  tone, 
"  Let  the  hawk  stoop,  his  prey  is  flown."  — 
The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew, 
But  Marmion  stopp'd  to  bid  adieu  :  — 


WALTER  SCOTT.  327 

"Though  something  I  might  plain,"  he  said, 
"  Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest, 
Sent  hither  by  your  King's  behest, 

While  in  Tantallon's  towers  I  staid ; 
Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land, 
And,  noble  Earl,  receive  my  hand."  — 
But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak, 
Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke  :  — 
"  My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers,  shall  still 
Be  open,  at  my  Sovereign's  will, 
To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 
Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer. 
My  castles  are  my  King's  alone. 
From  turret  to  foundation-stone  ; 
The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own. 
And  never  shall  in  friendly  grasp 
The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp." — 

Burn'd  Marmion's  swarthy  cheek  like  fire, 
And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ire, 

And  —  "  This  to  me  !  "  he  said,  — 
"  An  't  were  not  for  thy  hoary  beard, 
Such  hand  as  Marmion's  had  not  spared 

To  cleave  the  Douglas'  head  ! 
And,  first,  I  tell  thee,  haughty  Peer, 
He,  who  does  England's  message  here. 
Although  the  meanest  in  her  state. 
May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate : 
And,  Douglas,  more  I  tell  thee  here, 

Even  in  thy  pitch  of  pride. 


328  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Here  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near, 
(Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord, 
And  lay  your  hands  upon  your  sword,) 

I  tell  thee,  thou'rt  defied  ! 
And  if  thou  said'st  I  am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here, 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near. 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied  !  " 
On  the  Earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage 
O'ercame  the  ashen  hue  of  age : 
Fierce  he  broke  forth,  —  "And  darest  thou,  then, 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den. 

The  Douglas  in  his  hall  ? 
And  hopest  thou  hence  unscathed  to  go  ?  — 
No,  by  Saint  Bride  of  Bothwell,  no ! 
Up  drawbridge,  grooms — what.  Warder,  ho ! 

Let  the  portcullis  fall !  " 
Lord  Marmion  turn'd,  —  well  was  his  need, 
And  dash'd  the  rowels  in  his  steed. 
Like  arrow  through  the  archway  sprung, 
The  ponderous  grate  behind  him  rung : 
To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  room, 
The  bars,  descending,  razed  his  plume. 

The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies, 
Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise; 
Nor  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 
Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim  : 
And  when  Lord  Marmion  reach'd  his  band, 
He  halts,  and  turns  with  clenched  hand. 


WALTER  SCOTT.  329 

And  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours, 
And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 

*  *  *  * 

Next  morn  the  Baron  climb'd  the  tower, 
To  view  afar  the  Scottish  power, 

Encamp'd  on  Flodden  edge  : 
The  white  pavilions  made  a  show, 
Like  remnants  of  the  winter  snow, 

Along  the  dusky  ridge. 
Long  Marmion  look'd  :  —  at  length  his  eye 
Unusual  movement  might  descry 

Amid  the  shifting  lines  : 
The  Scottish  host  drawn  out  appears, 
For,  flashing  on  the  hedge  of  spears 

The  eastern  sunbeam  shines. 
Their  front  now  deepening,  now  extending ; 
Their  flank  inclining,  wheeling,  bending. 
Now  drawing  back,  and  now  descending, 
The  skilful  Marmion  well  could  know, 
They  watch'd  the  motions  of  some  foe, 
Who  traversed  on  the  plain  below. 

Even  so  it  was.      From  Flodden  ridge 
The  Scots  beheld  the  English  host 
Leave  Barmore-wood,  their  evening  post, 
And  heedful  watch'd  them  as  they  cross'd 

The  Till  by  Twisel  Bridge. 

High  sight  it  is,  and  haughty,  while 
They  dive  into  the  deep  defile ; 


330  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Beneath  the  cavern'd  cliff  they  fall, 

Beneath  the  castle's  airy  wall. 
By  rock,  by  oak,  by  hawthorn-tree, 

Troop  after  troop  are  disappearing  ; 

Troop  after  troop  their  banners  rearing, 
Upon  the  eastern  bank  you  see. 
Still  pouring  down  the  rocky  den, 

Where  flows  the  sullen  Till, 
And  rising  from  the  dim-wood  glen. 
Standards  on  standards,  men  on  men. 

In  slow  succession  still, 
And,  sweeping  o'er  the  Gothic  arch, 
And  pressing  on,  in  ceaseless  march, 

To  gain  the  opposing  hill. 
That  morn,  to  many  a  trumpet  clang, 
Twisel !  thy  rock's  deep  echo  rang  ; 
And  many  a  chief  of  birth  and  rank, 
Saint  Helen  !  at  thy  fountain  drank. 
Thy  hawthorn  glade,  which  now  we  see 
In  spring-tide  bloom  so  lavishly. 
Had  then  from  many  an  axe  its  doom. 
To  give  the  marching  columns  room. 

And  why  stands  Scotland  idly  now, 
Dark  Flodden  !  on  thy  airy  brow. 
Since  England  gains  the  pass  the  while, 
And  struggles  through  the  deep  defile } 
What  checks  the  fiery  soul  of  James  }■ 
Why  sits  that  champion  of  the  dames 
Inactive  on  his  steed. 


WALTER   SCOTT.  331 

And  sees,  between  him  and  his  land, 
Between  him  and  Tweed's  southern  strand 

His  host  Lord  Surrey  lead  ? 
What  'vails  the  vain  knight-errant's  brand  ? 
—  O,  Douglas,  for  thy  leading  wand  ! 

Fierce  Randolph,  for  thy  speed  ! 
O  for  one  hour  of  Wallace  wight. 
Or  well-skill'd  Bruce,  to  rule  the  fight, 
And  cry  —  "  Saint  Andrew  and  our  right !" 
Another  sight  had  seen  that  morn, 
From  Fate's  dark  book  a  leaf  been  torn. 
And  Flodden  had  been  Bannockbourne  !  — 
The  precious  hour  has  pass'd  in  vain. 
And  England's  host  has  gain'd  the  plain  ; 
Wheeling  their  march,  and  circling  still, 
Around  the  base  of  Flodden  hill. 


With  that,  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode 
Two  horsemen  drench'd  with  gore. 
And  in  their  arms,  a  helpless  load, 

A  wounded  knight  they  bore. 
His  hand  still  strain'd  the  broken  brand  ; 
His  arms  were  smear'd  with  blood  and  sand. 
Dragg'd  from  among  the  horses'  feet. 
With  dinted  shield,  and  helmet  beat, 
The  falcon-crest  and  plumage  gone, 
Can  that  be  haughty  Marmion  !  .  .  . 
Young  Blount  his  armour  did  unlace. 
And,  gazing  on  his  ghastly  face. 


332  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Said —  "  By  Saint  George,  he  's  gone  ! 
That  spear-wound  has  our  master  sped, 
And  see  the  deep  cut  on  his  head  ! 

Good-night  to  Marmion."  — 
"  Unnurtured  Blount !  thy  brawling  cease  : 
He  opes  his  eyes,"  said  Eustace;   "peace!" 

When,  doff'd  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air. 
Around  'gan  Marmion  wildly  stare  :  — 
"  Where's  Harry  Blount  ?   Fitz-Eustace  where? 
Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare ! 
Redeem  my  pennon,  —  charge  again  ! 
Cry — '  Marmion  to  the  rescue  ! ' — Vain  ! 
Last  of  my  race,  on  battle-plain 
That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again  !  — 
Yet  my  last  thought  is  England's  —  fly, 
To  Dacre  bear  my  signet-ring  : 
Tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring. — 
Fitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie ; 
Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field. 
His  life-blood  stains  the  spotless  shield : 
Edmund  is  down  : — my  life  is  reft ; 
The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 
Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire, — 
With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 
Full  upon  Scotland's  central  host. 
Or  victory  and  England  's  lost. — 
Must  I  bid  twice  }  —  hence,  varlets  !  fly  ! 
Leave  Marmion  here  alone  —  to  die." 
They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay  ; 


WALTER   SCOTT.  333 

Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away, 
Till  pain  wrung  forth  a  lowly  moan, 
And  half  he  murmur'd,  —  "  Is  there  none. 

Of  all  my  halls  have  nurst, 
Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 
Of  blessed  water  from  the  spring, 

To  slake  my  dying  thirst !  " 

O,  Woman  !  in  our  hours  of  ease. 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 
And  variable  as  the  shade 
By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made ; 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel  thou  !  — 
Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said, 
When,  with  the  Baron's  casque,  the  maid 

To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran  : 
Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears ; 
The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears. 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stoop'd  her  by  the  runnel's  side. 

But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew ; 
For,  oozing  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Where  raged  the  war,  a  dark-red  tide 

Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 
Where  shall  she  turn  .?  —  behold  her  mark 

A  little  fountain  cell, 
Where  water,  clear  as  diamond-spark 

In  a  stone  basin  fell. 
Above,  some  half-worn  letters  say, 


334  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Drink,  weary  pilgrun,  drink  and  pray 
For  the  kind  soul  of  Sybil  Grey, 
Who  built  this  cross  and  zvell. 
She  fill'd  the  helm,  and  back  she  hied, 
And  with  surprise  and  joy  espied 

A  monk  supporting  Marmion's  head : 
A  pious  man,  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought, 

To  shrieve  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 

Deep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave, 
And,  as  she  stoop'd  his  brow  to  lave  — 
"  Is  it  the  hand  of  Clare,"  he  said, 
"Or  injured  Constance,  bathes  my  head?" 

Then,  as  remembrance  rose, — 
<'  Speak  not  to  me  of  shrift  or  prayer ! 

I  must  redress  her  woes. 
Short  space,  few  words,  are  mine  to  spare ; 
Forgive  and  listen,  gentle  Clare  !  "  — 

"Alas!"  she  said,  "the  while, — 
O,  think  of  your  immortal  weal ! 
In  vain  for  Constance  is  your  zeal ; 

She died  at  Holy  Isle."  — 

Lord  Marmion  started  from  the  ground. 

As  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound  ; 

Though  in  the  action  burst  the  tide. 

In  torrents,  from  his  wounded  side. 

"  Then  it  was  truth,"  —  he  said  —  "I  knew 

That  the  dark  presage  must  be  true. — 

I  would  the  Fiend,  to  whom  belongs 


WALTER   SCOTT.  335 

The  vengeance  due  to  all  her  wrongs, 

Would  spare  me  but  a  day  ! 
For  wasting  fire,  and  dying  groan. 
And  priests  slain  on  the  altar-stone, 

Might  bribe  him  for  delay. 
It  may  not  be!  —  this  dizzy  trance  — 
Curse  on  yon  base  marauder's  lance, 
And  doubly  cursed  my  failing  brand ! 
A  sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand." 
Then,  fainting,  down  on  earth  he  sunk, 
Supported  by  the  trembling  Monk. 

With  fruitless  labour,  Clara  bound. 
And  strove  to  stanch  the  gushing  wound : 
The  Monk,  with  unavailing  cares, 
Exhausted  all  the  Church's  prayers. 
Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near, 
A  lady's  voice  was  in  his  ear. 
And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear, 
For  that  she  ever  sung, 

"  In  the  lost  battle,  borne  down  by  the  flying, 

Where  mingles  ivars  j^attle  with  groans  of  the  dying!  " 
So  the  notes  rung  ;  — 

"Avoid  thee.  Fiend! — with  cruel  hand. 

Shake  not  the  dying  sinner's  sand  ! — 

O,  look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 

Of  the  Redeemer's  grace  divine; 
O,  think  on  faith  and  bliss  !  — 

By  many  a  death-bed  I  have  been, 

And  many  a  sinner's  parting  seen. 


336  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

But  never  aught  like  this."  — 
The  war,  that  for  a  space  did  fail, 
Now  trebly  thundering  swell'd  the  gale, 

And  —  Stanley  !  was  the  cry  ; 
A  light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread, 

And  fired  his  glazing  eye ; 
With  dying  hand,  above  his  head. 
He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade. 

And  shouted  "Victory!  — 
Charge,  Chester,  charge  !     On,  Stanley,  on  !  " 
Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 

By  this,  though  deep  the  evening  fell. 
Still  rose  the  battle's  deadly  swell. 
For  still  the  Scots,  around  their  King, 
Unbroken,  fought  in  desperate  ring. 
Where  's  now  their  victor  vaward  wing. 

Where  Huntly,  and  where  Home.?  — 
O,  for  a  blast  of  that  dread  horn. 
On  Fontarabian  echoes  borne, 

That  to  King  Charles  did  come. 
When  Rowland  brave,  and  Olivier, 
And  every  paladin  and  peer. 

On  Roncesvalles  died ! 
Such  blast  might  warn  them,  not  in  vain, 
To  quit  the  plunder  of  the  slain. 
And  turn  the  doubtful  day  again, 

While  yet  on  Flodden's  side. 
Afar,  the  Royal  Standard  flies, 
And  round  it  toils,  and  bleeds,  and  dies. 


WALTER   SCOTT.  337 

Our  Caledonian  pride ! 
In  vain  the  wish — for  far  away, 
While  spoil  and  havock  mark  their  way, 
Near  Sybil's  Cross  the  plunderers  stray. — 
"O,  Lady,"  cried  the  Monk,  "away!" 

And  placed  her  on  her  steed, 
And  led  her  to  the  chapel  fair, 

Of  Tillmouth  upon  Tweed. 
There  all  the  night  they  spent  in  prayer. 
And  at  the  dawn  of  morning,  there 
She  met  her  kinsman.  Lord  Fitz-Clare. 

But  as  they  left  the  dark'ning  heath, 
More  desperate  grew  the  strife  of  death. 
The  English  shafts  in  volleys  hail'd. 
In  headlong  charge  their  horse  assail'd  ; 
Front,  flank,  and  rear,  the  squadrons  sweep 
To  break  the  Scottish  circle  deep. 

That  fought  around  their  King. 
But  yet,  though  thick  the  shafts  as  snow. 
Though  charging  knights  like  whirlwinds  go. 
Though  bill-men  ply  the  ghastly  blow, 

Unbroken  was  the  ring  ; 
The  stubborn  spear-men  still  made  good 
Their  dark  impenetrable  wood, 
Each  stepping  where  his  comrade  stood, 

The  instant  that  he  fell. 
No  thought  was  there  of  dastard  flight ; 
Link'd  in  the  serried  phalanx  tight. 
Groom  fought  like  noble,  squire  like  knight. 


338  r  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

As  fearlessly  and  well ; 
Till  utter  darkness  closed  her  wing 
O'er  their  thin  host  and  wounded  King. 
Then  skilful  Surrey's  sage  commands 
Led  back  from  strife  his  shatter'd  bands; 
And  from  the  charge  they  drew, 
As  mountain-waves,  from  wasted  lands, 

Sweep  back  to  ocean  blue. 
Then  did  their  loss  his  foemen  know ; 
Their  King,  their  Lords,  their  mightiest  low, 
They  melted  from  the  field  as  snow. 
When  streams  are  swoln  and  south  winds  blow, 

Dissolves  in  silent  dew. 
Tweed's  echoes  heard  the  ceaseless  plash, 
While  many  a  broken  band, 
Disorder'd,  through  her  currents  dash, 

To  gain  the  Scottish  land ; 
To  town  and  tower,  to  down  and  dale, 
To  tell  red  Flodden's  dismal  tale. 
And  raise  the  universal  wail. 
Tradition,  legend,  tune,  and  song. 
Shall  many  an  age  that  wail  prolong : 
Still  from  the  sire  the  son  shall  hear 
Of  the  stern  strife,  and  carnage  drear, 

Of  Flodden's  fatal  field. 
Where  shiver'd  was  fair  Scotland's  spear, 

And  broken  was  her  shield  ! 

Day  dawns  upon  the  mountain's  side:  — 
There,  Scotland  !  lay  thy  bravest  pride, 


WALTER  SCOTT.  339 

Chiefs,  knights,  and  nobles,  many  a  one  : 
The  sad  survivors  all  are  gone  — 
View  not  that  corpse  mistrustfully. 
Defaced  and  mangled  though  it  be ; 
Nor  to  yon  Border  Castle  high. 
Look  northward  with  upbraiding  eye ; 

Nor  cherish  hope  in  vain, 
That,  journeying  far  on  foreign  strand. 
The  Royal  Pilgrim  to  his  land 

May  yet  return  again. 
He  saw  the  wreck  his  rashness  wrought ; 
Reckless  of  life,  he  desperate  fought. 

And  fell  on  Flodden  plain ; 
And  well  in  death  his  trusty  brand, 
Firm  clench'd  within  his  manly  hand, 

Beseem'd  the  monarch  slain. 


From 
.     THE   LADY    OF   THE   LAKE. 

CANTO  I. 

The  Chase. 

The  western  waves  of  ebbing  day 
Roll'd  o'er  the  glen  their  level  way; 
Each  purple  peak,  each  flinty  spire. 
Was  bathed  in  floods  of  living  fire. 
But  not  a  setting  beam  could  glow 
Within  the  dark  ravines  below. 


.340  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Where  twined  the  path  in  shadow  hid, 

Round  many  a  rocky  pyramid, 

Shooting  abruptly  from  the  dell 

Its  thunder-splinter'd  pinnacle  ; 

Round  many  an  insulated  mass, 

The  native  bulwarks  of  the  pass, 

Huge  as  the  tower  which  builders  vain 

Presumptuous  piled  on  Shinar's  plain. 

The  rocky  summits,  split  and  rent, 

Form'd  turret,  dome,  or  battlement. 

Or  seem'd  fantastically  set 

With  cupola  or  minaret. 

Wild  crests  as  pagod  ever  deck'd. 

Or  mosque  of  Eastern  architect. 

Nor  were  these  earth-born  castles  bare. 

Nor  lack'd  they  many  a  banner  fair ; 

For,  from  their  shivcr'd  brows  display'd, 

Far  o'er  the  unfathomable  glade. 

All  twinkling  with  the  dewdrops  sheen, 

The  brier-rose  fell  in  streamers  green. 

And  creeping  shrubs,  of  thousand  dyes. 

Waved  in  the  west-wind's  summer  sighs. 

Boon  nature  scatter'd,  free  and  wild. 
Each  plant  or  flower,  the  mountain's  child, 
Here  eglantine  embalm'd  the  air. 
Hawthorn  and  hazel  mingled  there ; 
The  primrose  pale  and  violet  flower. 
Found  in  each  cliff  a  narrow  bower ; 
Fox-glove  and  night-shade,  side  by  side. 


WALTER   SCOTT.  341 

Emblems  of  punishment  and  pride, 
Group'd  their  dark  hues  with  every  stain 
The  weather-beaten  crags  retain. 
With  boughs  that  quaked  at  every  breath, 
Grey  birch  and  aspen  wept  beneath ; 
Aloft,  the  ash  and  warrior  oak 
Cast  anchor  in  the  rifted  rock ; 
And,  higher  yet,  the  pine-tree  hung 
His  shatter'd  trunk,  and  frequent  flung. 
Where  seem'd  the  cliffs  to  meet  on  high, 
His  boughs  athwart  the  narrow'd  sky. 
Highest  of  all,  where  white  peaks  glanced. 
Where  glist'ning  streamers  waved  and  danced, 
The  wanderer's  eye  could  barely  view 
The  summer  heaven's  delicious  blue  ; 
So  wondrous  wild,  the  whole  might  seem 
The  scenery  of  a  fairy  dream. 

Onward,  amid  the  copse  'gan  peep 
A  narrow  inlet,  still  and  deep. 
Affording  scarce  such  breadth  of  brim, 
As  served  the  wild  duck's  brood  to  swim. 
Lost  for  a  space,  through  thickets  veering, 
But  broader  when  again  appearing. 
Tall  rocks  and  tufted  knolls  their  face 
Could  on  the  dark-blue  mirror  trace ; 
And  farther  as  the  hunter  stray'd. 
Still  broader  sweeps  its  channels  made. 
The  shaggy  mounds  no  longer  stood, 
Emerging  from  entangled  wood. 


342  TWELVE    ENGLISH  POETS. 

But,  wave-encircled,  seem'd  to  float, 
Like  castle  girdle  with  its  moat ; 
Yet  broader  floods  extending  still 
Divide  them  from  their  parent  hill. 
Till  each,  retiring,  claims  to  be 
An  islet  in  an  inland  sea. 

And  now,  to  issue  from  the  glen. 

No  pathway  meets  the  wanderer's  ken, 

Unless  he  climb,  with  footing  nice, 

A  far  projecting  precipice. 

The  broom's  tough  roots  his  ladder  made, 

The  hazel  saplings  lent  their  aid ; 

And  thus  an  airy  point  he  won. 

Where,  gleaming  with  the  setting  sun. 

One  burnish'd  sheet  of  living  gold. 

Loch  Katrine  lay  beneath  him  roll'd. 

In  all  her  length  far  winding  lay. 

With  promontory,  creek,  and  bay. 

And  islands  that,  empurpled  bright, 

Floated  amid  the  livelier  light. 

And  mountains,  that  like  giants  stand. 

To  sentinel  enchanted  land. 

High  on  the  south,  huge  Benvenue 

Down  on  the  lake  in  masses  threw 

Crags,  knolls  and  mounds,  confusedly  hurl'd. 

The  fragments  of  an  earlier  world ; 

A  wildering  forest  feather'd  o'er 

His  ruin'd  sides  and  summit  hoar, 

While  on  the  north,  through  middle  air, 

Ben-an  heaved  high  his  forehead  bare. 


WALTER  SCOTT.  343 

From  the  steep  promontory  gazed 

The  stranger,  raptured  and  amazed. 

And,  "  What  a  scene  were  here,"  he  cried, 

"  For  princely  pomp,  or  churchman's  pride ! 

On  this  bold  brow,  a  lordly  tower ; 

In  that  soft  vale,  a  lady's  bower ; 

On  yonder  meadow,  far  away, 

The  turrets  of  a  cloister  grey ; 

How  blithely  might  the  bugle-horn 

Chide,  on  the  lake,  the  lingering  morn  ! 

How  sweet,  at  eve,  the  lover's  lute 

Chime,  when  the  groves  were  still  and  mute ! 

And,  when  the  midnight  moon  should  lave 

Her  forehead  in  the  silver  wave, 

How  solemn  on  the  ear  would  come 

The  holy  matin's  distant  hum, 

While  the  deep  peal's  commanding  tone 

Should  wake,  in  yonder  islet  lone, 

A  sainted  hermit  from  his  cell. 

To  drop  a  bead  with  every  knell  — 

And  bugle,  lute,  and  bell,  and  all. 

Should  each  bewilder'd  stranger  call 

To  friendly  feast,  and  lighted  hall. 

"Blithe  were  it  then  to  wander  here ! 
But  now,  —  beshrew  yon  nimble  deer,  — 
Like  that  same  hermit's,  thin  and  spare, 
The  copse  must  give  my  evening  fare  ; 
Some  mossy  bank  my  couch  must  be, 
Some  rustling  oak  my  canopy. 


344  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Yet  pass  we  that ;  the  war  and  chase 
Give  little  choice  of  resting-place;  — 
A  summer  night,  in  greenwood  spent, 
Were  but  to-morrow's  merriment : 
But  hosts  may  in  these  wilds  abound, 
Such  as  are  better  miss'd  than  found ; 
To  meet  with  Highland  plunderers  here, 
Were  worse  than  loss  of  steed  or  deer.  — 
I  am  alone; — my  bugle  strain 
May  call  some  straggler  of  the  train ; 
Or,  fall  the  worst  that  may  betide, 
Ere  now  this  falchion  has  been  tried." 

But  scarce  again  his  horn  he  wound, 

When  lo  !  forth  starting  at  the  sound, 

From  underneath  an  aged  oak, 

That  slanted  from  the  islet  rock, 

A  damsel  guider  of  its  way, 

A  little  skiff  shot  to  the  bay. 

That  round  the  promontory  steep 

Led  its  deep  line  in  graceful  sweep. 

Eddying  in  almost  viewless  wave, 

The  weeping  willow-twig  to  lave. 

And  kiss,  with  whispering  sound  and  slow. 

The  beach  of  pebbles  bright  as  snow. 

The  boat  had  touch'd  this  silver  strand 

Just  as  the  Hunter  left  his  stand. 

And  stood  conceal'd  amid  the  brake 

To  view  this  Lady  of  the  Lake. 

The  maiden  paused,  as  if  again 


WALTER  SCOTT.  345 

She  thought  to  catch  the  distant  strain. 
With  head  up-raised,  and  look  intent, 
And  eye  and  ear  attentive  bent, 
And  locks  flung  back,  and  lips  apart. 
Like  monument  of  Grecian  art, 
In  listening  mood,  she  seem'd  to  stand. 
The  guardian  Naiad  of  the  strand. 

And  ne'er  did  Grecian  chisel  trace 

A  Nymph,  a  Naiad,  or  a  Grace, 

Of  finer  form,  or  lovelier  face  ! 

What  though  the  sun,  with  ardent  frown, 

Had  slightly  tinged  her  cheek  with  brown,  — 

The  sportive  toil,  which,  short  and  light. 

Had  dyed  her  glowing  hue  so  bright. 

Served  too  in  hastier  swell  to  show 

Short  glimpses  of  a  breast  of  snow  : 

What  though  no  rule  of  courtly  grace 

To  measured  mood  had  train'd  her  pace,  — 

A  foot  more  light,  a  step  more  true, 

Ne'er  from  the  heath-flower  dash'd  the  dew ; 

E'en  the  slight  harebell  raised  its  head. 

Elastic  from  her  airy  tread  : 

What  though  upon  her  speech  there  hung 

The  accents  of  the  mountain  tongue,  — 

Those  silver  sounds,  so  soft,  so  dear. 

The  listener  held  his  breath  to  hear ! 

A  Chieftain's  daughter  seem'd  the  maid  ; 
Her  satin  snood,  her  silken  plaid, 


346  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Her  golden  brooch,  such  birth  betray'd. 
And  seldom  was  a  snood  amid 
Such  wild  luxuriant  ringlets  hid, 
Whose  glossy  black  to  shame  might  bring 
The  plumage  of  the  raven's  wing ; 
And  seldom  o'er  a  breast  so  fair. 
Mantled  a  plaid  with  modest  care. 
And  never  brooch  the  folds  combined 
Above  a  heart  more  good  and  kind. 
Her  kindness  and  her  worth  to  spy, 
You  need  but  gaze  on  Ellen's  eye ; 
Not  Katrine,  in  her  mirror  blue, 
Gives  back  the  shaggy  banks  more  true 
Than  every  free-born  glance  confess'd 
The  guileless  movements  of  her  breast ; 
Whether  joy  danced  in  her  dark  eye, 
Or  woe  or  pity  claim'd  a  sigh. 
Or  filial  love  was  glowing  there. 
Or  meek  devotion  pour'd  a  prayer, 
Or  tale  of  injury  call'd  forth 
The  indignant  spirit  of  the  North. 
One  only  passion  unreveal'd 
With  maiden  pride  the  maid  conceal'd. 
Yet  not  less  purely  felt  the  flame  ;  — 
O  need  I  tell  that  passion's  name  ! 

Impatient  of  the  silent  horn. 
Now  on  the  gale  her  voice  was  borne  ;  — 
"  Father  !  "  she  cried  ;  the  rocks  around 
Loved  to  prolong  the  gentle  sound. 


WALTER  SCOTT.  347 

Awhile  she  paused,  no  answer  came,  — 
"Malcolm,  was  thine  the  blast?"  the  name 
Less  resolutely  utter'd  fell, 
The  echoes  could  not  catch  the  swell. 
"A  stranger  I,"  the  Huntsman  said, 
Advancing  from  the  hazel  shade. 
The  maid,  alarmed,  with  hasty  oar, 
Push'd  her  light  shallop  from  the  shore, 
And  when  a  space  was  gain'd  between. 
Closer  she  drew  her  bosom's  screen  ; 
(So  forth  the  startled  swan  would  swing. 
So  turn  to  prune  his  ruffled  wing.) 
Then  safe,  though  flutter'd  and  amazed, 
She  paused,  and  on  the  stranger  gazed. 
Not  his  the  form,  nor  his  the  eye 
That  youthful  maidens  wont  to  fly. 

On  his  bold  visage  middle  age 
Had  slightly  press'd  its  signet  sage. 
Yet  had  not  quench'd  the  open  truth 
And  fiery  vehemence  of  youth  ; 
Forward  and  frolic  glee  was  there, 
The  will  to  do,  the  soul  to  dare, 
The  sparkling  glance,  soon  blown  to  fire, 
Of  hasty  love,  or  headlong  ire. 
His  limbs  were  cast  in  manly  mould. 
For  hardy  sports  or  contest  bold  ; 
And  though  in  peaceful  garb  array'd, 
And  weaponless,  except  his  blade. 
His  stately  mien  as  well  implied 


348  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

A  high-born  heart,  a  martial  pride, 

As  if  a  Baron's  crest  he  wore 

And  sheathed  in  armour  trode  the  shore. 

Slighting  the  petty  need  he  show'd. 

He  told  of  his  benighted  road  ; 

His  ready  speech  flow'd  fair  and  free, 

In  phrase  of  gentlest  courtesy ; 

Yet  seem'd  that  tone  and  gesture  bland 

Less  used  to  sue  than  to  command. 

A  while  the  maid  the  stranger  eyed, 
And,  reassured,  at  length  replied 
That  Highland  halls  were  open  still 
To  wilder'd  wanderers  of  the  hill. 
"  Nor  think  you  unexpected  come 
To  yon  lone  isle,  our  desert  home ; 
Before  the  heath  had  lost  the  dew. 
This  morn,  a  couch  was  pull'd  for  you 
On  yonder  mountain's  purple  head 
Have  ptarmigan  and  heath-cock  bled, 
And  our  broad  nets  have  swept  the  mere, 
To  furnish  forth  your  evening  cheer." 
"  Now,  by  the  rood,  my  lovely  maid. 
Your  courtesy  has  err'd,"  he  said  ; 
"  No  right  have  I  to  claim,  misplaced. 
The  welcome  of  expected  guest. 
A  wanderer,  here  by  fortune  tost, 
My  way,  my  friends,  my  courser  lost, 
I  ne'er  before,  believe  me,  fair. 
Have  ever  drawn  your  mountain  air. 


WALTER  SCOTT.  349 

Till  on  this  lake's  romantic  strand 
I  found  a  fay  in  fairy  land  !  "  — 

"I  well  believe,"  the  maid  replied, 

As  her  light  skiff  approach'd  the  side,  — 

"  I  well  believe,  that  ne'er  before 

Your  foot  has  trod  Loch  Katrine's  shore ; 

But  yet,  as  far  as  yesternight, 

Old  Allan-bane  foretold  your  plight ; 

A  grey-hair'd  sire,  whose  eye  intent 

Was  on  the  vision'd  future  bent. 

He  saw  your  steed,  a  dappled  grey, 

Lie  dead  beneath  the  birchen  way ; 

Painted  exact  your  form  and  mien, 

Your  hunting  suit  of  Lincoln  green. 

That  tassell'd  horn  so  gaily  gilt. 

That  falchion's  crooked  blade  and  hilt, 

That  cap  with  heron  plumage  trim. 

And  yon  two  hounds  so  dark  and  grim. 

He  bade  that  all  should  ready  be. 

To  grace  a  guest  of  fair  degree  ; 

But  light  I  held  his  prophecy. 

And  deem'd  it  was  my  father's  horn 

Whose  echoes  o'er  the  lake  were  borne." 

The  stranger  smiled  :  —  "  Since  to  your  home 
A  destined  errant-knight  I  come, 
Announced  by  prophet  sooth  and  old, 
Doom'd,  doubtless,  for  achievement  bold 
I  '11  lightly  front  each  high  emprise, 


350  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

For  one  kind  glance  of  those  bright  eyes. 

Permit  me,  first,  the  task  to  guide 

Your  fairy  frigate  o'er  the  tide." 

The  maid,  with  smile  suppress'd  and  sly. 

The  toil  unwonted  saw  him  try ; 

For  seldom  sure,  if  e'er  before, 

His  noble  hand  had  grasp'd  an  oar : 

Yet  with  main  strength  his  strokes  he  drew, 

And  o'er  the  lake  the  shallop  flew ; 

With  heads  erect  and  whimpering  cry 

The  hounds  behind  their  passage  ply. 

Nor  frequent  does  the  bright  oar  break 

The  dark'ning  mirror  of  the  lake, 

Until  the  rocky  isle  they  reach. 

And  moor  their  shallop  on  the  beach. 

The  stranger  view'd  the  shore  around, 
'T  was  all  so  close  with  copsewood  bound, 
Nor  track  nor  pathway  might  declare 
That  human  foot  frequented  there, 
Until  the  mountain-maiden  show'd 
A  clambering  unsuspected  road. 
That  winded  through  the  tangled  screen 
And  open'd  on  a  narrow  green. 
Where  weeping  birch  and  willow  round 
With  their  long  fibres  swept  the  ground. 
Here,  for  retreat  in  dangerous  hour, 
Some  chief  had  framed  a  rustic  bower. 

It  was  a  lodge  of  ample  size. 

But  strange  of  structure  and  device ; 


WALTER  SCOTT.  351 

Of  such  materials,  as  around 

The  workman's  hand  had  readiest  found. 

Lopp'd  off  their  boughs,  their  hoar  trunks  bared, 

And  by  the  hatchet  rudely  squared, 

To  give  the  walls  their  destined  height, 

The  sturdy  oak  and  ash  unite ; 

While  moss  and  clay  and  leaves  combined 

To  fence  each  crevice  from  the  wind. 

The  lighter  pine-trees,  over-head. 

Their  slender  length  for  rafters  spread, 

And  wither'd  heath  and  rushes  dry 

Supplied  a  russet  canopy. 

Due  westward,  fronting  to  the  green, 

A  rural  portico  was  seen. 

Aloft  on  native  pillars  borne. 

Of  mountain  fir,  with  bark  unshorn. 

Where  Ellen's  hand  had  taught  to  twine 

The  ivy  and  Idaean  vine. 

The  clematis,  the  favour'd  flower 

Which  boasts  the  name  of  virgin-bower. 

And  every  hardy  plant  could  bear 

Loch  Katrine's  keen  and  searching  air. 

An  instant  in  this  porch  she  staid. 

And  gaily  to  the  stranger  said, 

"  On  heaven  and  on  thy  lady  call. 

And  enter  the  enchanted  hall !  " 

"My  hope,  my  heaven,  my  trust  must  be. 
My  gentle  guide,  in  following  thee." 
He  cross'd  the  threshold  — and  a  clang 


352  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Of  angry  steel  that  instant  rang. 

To  his  bold  brow  his  spirit  rush'd, 

But  soon  for  vain  alarm  he  blush'd, 

When  on  the  floor  he  saw  display'd, 

Cause  of  the  din,  a  naked  blade 

Dropp'd  from  the  sheath,  that  careless  flung 

Upon  a  stag's  huge  antlers  swung; 

For  all  around,  the  walls  to  grace. 

Hung  trophies  of  the  fight  or  chase  : 

A  target  there,  a  bugle  here, 

A  battle-axe,  a  hunting-spear. 

And  broadswords,  bows,  and  arrows  store. 

With  the  tusk'd  trophies  of  the  boar. 

Here  grins  the  wolf  as  when  he  died. 

And  there  the  wild-cat's  brindled  hide 

The  frontlet  of  the  elk  adorns, 

Or  mantles  o'er  the  bison's  horns ; 

Pennons  and  flags  defaced  and  stain'd. 

That  blackening  streaks  of  blood  retain'd. 

And  deer-skins,  dappled,  dun,  and  white, 

With  otter's  fur  and  seal's  unite, 

In  rude  and  uncouth  tapestry  all. 

To  garnish  forth  the  sylvan  hall. 

The  wondering  stranger  round  him  gazed, 
And  next  the  fallen  weapon  raised  :  — 
Few  were  the  arms  whose  sinewy  strength 
Sufficed  to  stretch  it  forth  at  length. 
And  as  the  brand  he  poised  and  sway'd, 
"  I  never  knew  but  one,"  he  said, 


WALTER   SCOTT.  353 

'*  Whose  stalwart  arm  might  brook  to  wield 
A  blade  like  this  in  battle-field." 
She  sigh'd,  then  smiled  and  took  the  word  : 
"  You  see  the  guardian  champion's  sword  : 
As  light  it  trembles  in  his  hand, 
As  in  my  grasp  a  hazel  wand ; 
My  sire's  tall  form  might  grace  the  part 
Of  Ferragus  or  Ascabart ; 
.But  in  the  absent  giant's  hold 
Are  women  now,  and  menials  old." 

The  mistress  of  the  mansion  came, 

Mature  of  age,  a  graceful  dame ; 

Whose  easy  step  and  stately  port 

Had  well  become  a  princely  court, 

To  whom,  though  more  than  kindred  knew. 

Young  Ellen  gave  a  mother's  due. 

Meet  welcome  to  her  guest  she  made. 

And  every  courteous  rite  was  paid 

That  hospitality  could  claim, 

Though  all  unask'd  his  birth  and  name. 

Such  then  the  reverence  to  a  guest. 

That  fellest  foe  might  join  the  feast, 

And  from  his  deadliest  foeman's  door 

Unquestion'd  turn,  the  banquet  o'er. 

At  length  his  rank  the  stranger  names, 

"  The  Knight  of  Snowdoun,  James  Fitz-James ; 

Lord  of  a  barren  heritage. 

Which  his  brave  sires,  from  age  to  age. 

By  their  good  swords  had  held  with  toil ; 


354  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

His  sire  had  fallen  in  such  turmoil, 
And  he,  God  wot,  was  forced  to  stand 
Oft  for  his  right  with  blade  in  hand. 
This  morning,  with  Lord  Moray's  train. 
He  chased  a  stalwart  stag  in  vain, 
Outstripp'd  his  comrades,  miss'd  the  deer, 
Lost  his  good  steed,  and  wander'd  here." 

Fain  would  the  knight  in  turn  require 
The  name  and  state  of  Ellen's  sire. 
Well  show'd  the  elder  lady's  mien 
That  courts  and  cities  she  had  seen ; 
Ellen,  though  more  her  looks  display'd 
The  simple  grace  of  sylvan  maid. 
In  speech  and  gesture,  form  and  face, 
Show'd  she  was  come  of  gentle  race. 
'Twere  strange,  in  ruder  rank  to  find 
Such  looks,  such  manners,  and  such  mind. 
Each  hint  the  Knight  of  Snowdoun  gave 
Dame  Margaret  heard  with  silence  grave ; 
Or  Ellen,  innocently  gay, 
Turn'd  all  inquiry  light  away:  — 
"  Weird  women  we  !  by  dale  and  down 
We  dwell,  afar  from  tower  and  town. 
We  stem  the  flood,  we  ride  the  blast, 
On  wandering  knights  our  spells  we  cast ; 
While  viewless  minstrels  touch  the  string, 
'Tis  thus  our  charmed  rhymes  we  sing." 
She  sung,  and  still  a  harp  unseen 
Fill'd  up  the  symphony  between. 


WALTER   SCOTT.  355 


Song. 


"  Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking ; 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more. 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
In  our  jsle's  enchanted  hall, 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall, 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,  rest  !  thy  warfare  o'er. 

Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more  : 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking. 

Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

"No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear. 

Armour's  clang,  or  war-steed  champing, 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan,  or  squadron  tramping. 
Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  day-break  from  the  fallow, 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum, 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 
Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here, 
Here  's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champing, 
Shouting  clans,  or  squadrons  stamping." 

She  paused  —  then,  blushing,  led  the  lay 
To  grace  the  stranger  of  the  day. 


356  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Her  mellow  notes  awhile  prolong 
The  cadence  of  the  flowing  song, 
Till  to  her  lips  in  measured  frame 
The  minstrel  verse  spontaneous  came. 

"  Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done, 

While  our  slumbrous  spells  assail  ye, 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun. 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveille. 
Sleep  !  the  deer  is  in  his  den  ; 

Sleep  !  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying; 
Sleep  !  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done, 

Think  not  of  the  rising  sun, 
For  at  dawning  to  assail  ye. 
Here  no  bugles  sound  reveille." 


From 

THE   LORD    OF   THE   ISLES. 

CANTO   VI. 

It  was  a  night  of  lovely  June, 

High  rode  in  cloudless  blue  the  moon, 

Demayet  smiled  beneath  her  ray; 
Old  Stirling's  towers  arose  in  light, 
And,  twined  in  links  of  silver  bright. 

Her  winding  river  lay. 


WALTER  SCOTT.  357 

Ah,  gentle  planet !  other  sight 

Shall  greet  thee  next  returning  night, 

Of  broken  arms  and  banners  tore, 

And  marshes  dark  with  human  gore. 

And  piles  of  slaughter'd  men  and  horse, 

And  Forth  that  floats  the  frequent  corse, 

And  many  a  wounded  wretch  to  plain 

Beneath  thy  silver  light  in  vain ! 

But  now,  from  England's  host,  the  cry 

Thou  hear' St  of  wassail  revelry. 

While  from  the  Scottish  legions  pass 

The  murmur'd  prayer,  the  early  mass  !  — 

Here,  numbers  had  presumption  given  ; 

There,  bands  o'er-match'd  sought  aid  from  Heaven. 

On  Gillie's  hill,  whose  height  commands 

The  battle-field,  fair  Edith  stands, 

With  serf  and  page  unfit  for  war, 

To-eye  the  conflict  from  afar. 

O  !  with  what  doubtful  agony 

She  sees  the  dawning  tint  the  sky  !  — 

Now  on  the  Ochils  gleams  the  sun, 

And  glistens  now  Demayet  dun  ; 
Is  it  the  lark  that  carols  shrill  ? 
Is  it  the  bittern's  early  hum  ? 
No  !  —  distant,  but  increasing  still, 
The  trumpet's  sound  swells  up  the  hill. 
With  the  deep  murmur  of  the  drum. 

Responsive  from  the  Scottish  host. 

Pipe-clang  and  bugle  sound  were  toss'd, 


358  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

His  breast  and  brow  each  soldier  cross'd, 

And  started  from  the  ground  ; 
Arm'd  and  array'd  for  instant  fight, 
Rose  archer,  spearman,  squire  and  knight, 
And  in  the  pomp  of  battle  bright 
The  dread  battalia  frown'd. 

Now  onward,  and  in  open  view. 

The  countless  ranks  of  England  drew, 

Dark  rolling  like  the  ocean-tide, 

When  the  rough  west  hath  chafed  his  pride, 

And  his  deep  roar  sends  challenge  wide 

To  all  that  bars  his  way  ! 
In  front  the  gallant  archers  trode. 
The  men-at-arms  behind  them  rode, 
And  midmost  of  the  phalanx  broad 

The  Monarch  held  his  sway. 
Beside  him  many  a  war-horse  fumes, 
Around  him  waves  a  sea  of  plumes, 
Where  many  a  knight  in  battle  known, 
And  some  who  spurs  had  first  braced  on, 
And  deem'd  that  fight  should  see  them  won. 

King  Edward's  bests  obey. 
De  Argentine  attends  his  side, 
With  stout  De  Valence,  Pembroke's  pride. 
Selected  champions  from  the  train. 
To  wait  upon  his  bridle-rein. 
Upon  the  Scottish  foe  he  gazed  — 
At  once,  before  his  sight  amazed. 

Sunk  banner,  spear,  and  shield  ; 


WALTER   SCOTT.  359 

Each  weapon-point  is  downward  sent, 
Each  warrior  to  the  ground  is  bent. 
"  The  rebels,  Argentine,  repent ! 

For  pardon  they  have  kneel'd."  — 
a  Aye  !  —  but  they  bend  to  other  powers, 
And  other  pardon  sue  than  ours  ! 
See  where  yon  bare-foot  Abbot  stands, 
And  blesses  them  with  lifted  hands  ! 
Upon  the  spot  where  they  have  kneel'd, 
These  men  will  die  or  win  the  field."  — 
"  Then  prove  we  if  they  die  or  win ! 
Bid  Gloster's  Earl  the  fight  begin." 

Earl  Gilbert  waved  his  truncheon  high, 

Just  as  the  Northern  ranks  arose, 
Signal  for  England's  archery 

To  halt  and  bend  their  bows. 
Then  stepp'd  each  yeoman  forth  a  pace, 
Glanced  at  the  intervening  space, 

And  raised  his  left  hand  high  ; 
To  the  right  ear  the  cords  they  bring  — 
At  once  ten  thousand  bow-strings  ring, 

Ten  thousand  arrows  fly  ! 
Nor  paused  on  the  devoted  Scot 
The  ceaseless  fury  of  their  shot ; 

As  fiercely  and  as  fast 
Forth  whistling  came  the  grey-goose  wing 
As  the  wild  hailstones  pelt  and  ring 

Adown  December's  blast. 
Nor  mountain  targe  of  tough  bull-hide, 


360  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Nor  lowland  mail  that  storm  may  bide ; 
Woe,  woe  to  Scotland's  banner'd  pride, 

If  the  fell  shower  may  last ! 
Upon  the  right,  behind  the  wood, 
Each  by  his  steed  dismounted,  stood 

The  Scottish  chivalry;  — 
With  foot  in  stirrup,  hand  on  mane, 
Fierce  Edward  Bruce  can  scarce  restrain 
His  own  keen  heart,  his  eager  train. 
Until  the  archers  gained  the  plain ; 

Then,  "Mount,  ye  gallants  free!" 
He  cried ;  and,  vaulting  from  the  ground. 
His  saddle  every  horseman  found. 
On  high  their  glittering  crests  they  toss. 
As  springs  the  wild-fire  from  the  moss; 
The  shield  hangs  down  on  every  breast. 
Each  ready  lance  is  in  the  rest. 

And  loud  shouts  Edward  Bruce,  — 
"  Forth,  Marshal  !  on  the  peasant  foe  ! 
We  '11  tame  the  terrors  of  their  bow, 
And  cut  the  bow-string  loose !  " 

Then  spurs  were  dash'd  in  charger's  flanks, 
They  rushed  among  the  archer  ranks. 
No  spears  were  there  the  shock  to  let, 
No  stakes  to  turn  the  charge  were  set. 
And  how  shall  yeoman's  armour  slight, 
Stand  the  long  lance  and  mace  of  might } 
Or  what  may  their  short  swords  avail, 
'Gainst  barbed  horse  and  shirt  of  mail } 


WALTER  SCOTT.  361 

Amid  their  ranks  the  chargers  sprung, 

High  o'er  their  heads  the  weapons  swung, 

And  shriek  and  groan  and  vengeful  shout 

Give  note  of  triumph  and  of  rout  ! 

Awhile,  with  stubborn  hardihood, 

Their  English  hearts  the  strife  made  good. 

Borne  down  at  length  on  every  side, 

Compell'd  to  flight,  they  scatter  wide.  — 

Let  stags  of  Sherwood  leap  for  glee, 

And  bound  the  deer  of  Dallon-Lee  ! 

The  broken  bows  of  Bannock's  shore 

Shall  in  the  greenwood  ring  no  more ! 

Round  Wakefield's  merry  May-pole  now 

The  maids  may  twine  the  summ.er  bough. 

May  northward  look  with  longing  glance. 

For  those  that  wont  to  lead  the  dance. 

For  the  blithe  archers  look  in  vain  ! 

Broken,  dispersed,  in  flight  o'erta'en. 

Pierced  through,  trode  down,  by  thousands  slain. 

They  cumber  Bannock's  bloody  plain. 

The  King  with  scorn  beheld  their  flight. 
"  Are  these,"  he  said,  "  our  yeomen  wight  .■' 
Each  braggart  churl  could  boast  before, 
Twelve  Scottish  lives  his  baldric  bore  ! 
Fitter  to  plunder  chase  or  park 
Than  make  a  manly  foe  their  mark.  — 
Forward,  each  gentleman  and  knight ! 
Let  gentle  blood  show  generous  might. 
And  chivalry  redeem  the  fight !  " 


362  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

To  rightward  of  the  wild  affray 
The  field  show'd  fair  and  level  way ; 

But,  in  mid-space,  the  Bruce's  care 
Had  bored  the  ground  with  many  a  pit, 
With  turf  and  brushwood  hidden  yet, 

That  form'd  a  ghastly  snare. 
Rushing,  ten  thousand  horsemen  came, 
With  spears  in  rest,  and  hearts  on  flame. 

That  panted  for  the  shock ! 
With  blazing  crests  and  banners  spread. 
And  trumpet-clang  and  clamour  dread, 
The  wide  plain  thunder'd  to  their  tread, 

As  far  as  Stirling  rock. 
Down  !  down  !  in  headlong  overthrow, 
Horseman  and  horse,  the  foremost  go, 

Wild  floundering  on  the  field  ! 
The  first  are  in  destruction's  gorge, 
Their  followers  wildly  o'er  them  urge  :  — 

The  knightly  helm  and  shield. 
The  mail,  the  acton,  and  the  spear, 
Strong  hand,  high  heart,  are  useless  here ! 
Loud  from  the  mass  confused  the  cry 
Of  dying  warriors  swells  on  high. 
And  steeds  that  shriek  in  agony ! 
They  came  like  mountain-torrent  red. 
That  thunders  o'er  its  rocky  bed ; 
They  broke  like  that  same  torrent's  wave 
When  swallow'd  by  a  darksome  cave. 
Billows  on  billows  burst  and  boil, 
Maintaining  still  the  stern  turmoil. 


WALTER  SCOTT.  363 

And  to  their  wild  and  tortured  groan 
Each  adds  new  terrors  of  his  own ! 

Too  strong  in  courage  and  in  might 
Was  England  yet,  to  yield  the  fight. 

Her  noblest  all  are  here ; 
Names  that  to  fear  were  never  known, 
Bold  Norfolk's  Earl  De  Brotherton, 

And  Oxford's  famed  De  Vere. 
There  Gloster  plied  the  bloody  sword, 
And  Berkley,  Grey,  and  Hereford, 

Bottetourt  and  Sanzavere, 
Ross,  Montague,  and  Mauley,  came. 
And  Courtenay's  pride,  and  Percy's  fame  — 
Names  known  too  well  in  Scotland's  war, 
At  Falkirk,  Methven,  and  Dunbar, 
Blazed  broader  yet  in  after  years. 
At  Cressy  red  and  fell  Poitiers. 
Pembroke  with  these,  and  Argentine, 
Brought  up  the  rearward  battle-line. 
With  caution  o'er  the  ground  they  tread. 
Slippery  with  blood  and  piled  with  dead. 
Till  hand  to  hand  in  battle  set, 
The  bills  with  spears  and  axes  met, 
And,  closing  dark  on  every  side, 
Raged  the  full  contest  far  and  wide. 
Then  was  the  strength  of  Douglas  tried. 
Then  proved  was  Randolph's  generous  pride. 
And  well  did  Stewart's  actions  grace 
The  sire  of  Scotland's  royal  race ! 


364  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Firmly  they  kept  their  ground  ; 
As  firmly  England  onward  press'd, 
And  down  went  many  a  noble  crest, 
And  rent  was  many  a  valiant  breast, 

And  Slaughter  revell'd  round. 

Unflinching  foot  'gainst  foot  was  set. 
Unceasing  blow  by  blow  was  met ; 

The  groans  of  those  who  fell 
Were  drown'd  amid  the  shriller  clang 
That  from  the  blades  and  harness  rang, 

And  in  the  battle-yell. 
Yet  fast  they  fell,  unheard,  forgot, 
Both  Southern  fierce  and  hardy  Scot ; 
And  O  !  amid  that  waste  of  life. 
What  various  motives  fired  the  strife ! 
The  aspiring  Noble  bled  for  fame. 
The  Patriot  for  his  country's  claim ; 
This  Knight  his  youthful  strength  to  prove. 
And  that  to  win  his  lady's  love ; 
Some  fought  from  rufflan  thirst  of  blood, 
From  habit  some,  or  hardihood. 
But  ruffian  stern,  and  soldier  good, 

The  noble  and  the  slave. 
From  various  cause  the  same  wild  road, 
On  the  same  bloody  morning,  trode. 

To  that  dark  inn,  the  grave ! 

The  tug  of  strife  to  flag  begins, 
Though  neither  loses  yet  nor  wins. 


WALTER  SCOTT.  365 

High  rides  the  sun,  thick  rolls  the  dust, 
And  feebler  speeds  the  blow  and  thrust. 
Douglas  leans  on  his  war-sword  now, 
And  Randolph  wipes  his  bloody  brow ; 
Nor  less  had  toil'd  each  Southern  knight, 
From  morn  till  mid-day  in  the  fight. 
Strong  Egremont  for  air  must  gasp, 
Beauchamp  undoes  his  visor-clasp, 
And  Montague  must  quit  his  spear, 
And  sinks  thy  falchion,  bold  De  Vere ! 
The  blows  of  Berkley  fall  less  fast, 
And  gallant  Pembroke's  bugle-blast 

Hath  lost  its  lively  tone ; 
Sinks,  Argentine,  thy  battle-word. 
And  Percy's  shout  was  fainter  heard, 

"  My  merry-men,  fight  on  !  " 

Bruce,  with  the  pilot's  wary  eye. 
The  slackening  of  the  storm  could  spy. 
"  One  effort  more,  and  Scotland  's  free  ! 
Lord  of  the  Isles,  my  trust  in  thee 

Is  firm  as  Ailsa  Rock ; 
Rush  on  with  Highland  sword  and  targe, 
I,  with  my  Carrick  spearmen  charge ; 

Now,  forward  to  the  shock!" 
At  once  the  spears  were  forward  thrown. 
Against  the  sun  the  broadswords  shone ; 
The  pibroch  lent  its  maddening  tone. 
And  loud  King  Robert's  voice  was  known  — 
"  Carrick,  press  on  —  they  fail,  they  fail ! 


366  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Press  on,  brave  sons  of  Innisgail, 

The  foe  is  fainting  fast ! 
Each  strike  for  parent,  child,  and  wife, 
For  Scotland,  liberty,  and  life,  — 

The  battle  cannot  last !  " 

The  fresh  and  desperate  onset  bore 
The  foes  three  furlongs  back  and  more. 
Leaving  their  noblest  in  their  gore. 

Alone,  De  Argentine 
Yet  bears  on  high  his  red-cross  shield. 
Gathers  the  relics  of  the  field, 
Renews  the  ranks  where  they  have  reel'd, 

And  still  makes  good  the  line. 
Brief  strife,  but  fierce,  —  his  efforts  raise 
A  bright  but  momentary  blaze. 
Fair  Edith  heard  the  Southron  shout, 
Beheld  them  turning  from  the  rout, 
Heard  the  wild  call  their  trumpets  sent. 
In  notes  'twixt  triumph  and  lament. 
That  rallying  force,  combined  anew, 
Appear'd  in  her  distracted  view. 

To  hem  the  Islesmen  round ; 
"  O  God  !  the  combat  they  renew, 

And  is  no  rescue  found ! 
And  ye  that  look  thus  tamely  on 
And  see  your  native  land  o'erthrown, 
O  !  are  your  hearts  of  flesh  or  stone  }  " 

The  multitude  that  watch'd  afar, 
Rejected  from  the  ranks  of  war. 


WALTER  SCOTT.  .367 

Had  not  unmoved  beheld  the  fight, 
When  strove  the  Bruce  for  Scotland's  right ; 
Each  heart  had  caught  the  patriot  spark, 
Old  man  and  stripling,  priest  and  clerk, 
Bondsman  and  serf ;  even  female  hand 
Stretch'd  to  the  hatchet  or  the  brand ; 
But,  when  mute  Amadine  they  heard 
Give  to  their  zeal  his  signal-word, 

A  frenzy  fired  the  throng ; 
"  Portents  and  miracles  impeach 
Our  sloth  —  the  dumb  our  duties  teach  — 
And  he  that  gives  the  mute  his  speech 
Can  bid  the  weak  be  strong. 
To  us,  as  to  our  lords,  are  given 
A  native  earth,  a  promised  heaven  ; 
To  us,  as  to  our  lords,  belongs 
The  vengeance  for  our  nation's  wrongs  ; 
The  choice  'twixt  death  or  freedom,  warms 
Our  breasts  as  theirs  —  To  arms,  to  arms  !  " 
To  arms  they  flew,  —  axe,  club,  or  spear,  — 
And  mimic  ensigns  high  they  rear. 
And,  like  a  banner'd  host  afar. 
Bear  down  on  England's  wearied  war. 

Already  scatter'd  o'er  the  plain, 
Reproof,  command,  and  counsel  vain, 
The  rearward  squadrons  fled  amain. 

Or  made  but  doubtful  stay ; 
But  when  they  mark'd  the  seeming  show 
Of  fresh  and  fierce  and  marshall'd  foe. 


368  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  boldest  broke  array. 

0  give  their  hapless  prince  his  due ! 
In  vain  the  royal  Edward  threw 

His  person  'mid  the  spears, 
Cried,  "  Fight  !  "  to  terror  and  despair. 
Menaced,  and  wept,  and  tore  his  hair. 

And  cursed  their  caitiff  fears  ; 
Till  Pembroke  turn'd  his  bridle  rein, 
And  forced  him  from  the  fatal  plain. 
With  them  rode  Argentine,  until 
They  gain'd  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
But  quitted  there  the  train  :  — 
"  In  yonder  field  a  gage  I  left,  — 

1  must  not  live  of  fame  bereft ; 

I  needs  must  turn  again. 
Speed  hence,  my  Liege,  for  on  your  trace 
The  fiery  Douglas  takes  the  chase, 

I  know  his  banner  well. 
God  send  my  Sovereign  joy  and  bliss, 
And  many  a  happier  field  than  this  !  — 

Once  more,  my  Liege,  farewell." 


From 
IVANHOE. 

The  Song  of  Rebecca. 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved, 
Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came. 


WALTER  SCOTT.  369 

Her  father's  God  before  her  moved, 
An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 

By  day,  along  the  astonish'd  lands 
The  clouded  pillar  glided  slow ; 

By  night,  Arabia's  crimson'd  sands 
Return'd  the  fiery  column's  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise, 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answer'd  keen. 
And  Zion's  daughters  pour'd  their  lays, 

With  priest's  and  warrior's  voice  between. 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze. 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone  : 
Our  fathers  would  not  know  Thy  ways, 

And  Thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But  present  still,  though  now  unseen ! 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day, 
Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a  cloudy  screen 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 
And  oh,  when  stoops  on  Judah's  path 

In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night. 
Be  Thou,  long-suffering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A  burning  and  a  shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams. 
The  tyrant's  jest,  the  Gentile's  scorn; 

No  censer  round  our  altar  beams. 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  harp,  and  horn. 

But  Thou  hast  said.  The  blood  of  goat, 
The  flesh  of  rams  I  will  not  prize ; 


370  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS 

A  contrite  heart,  a  humble  thought, 
Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice. 


From 

QUENTIN   DURWARD. 

County  Guy. 

Ah  !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea, 
The  orange  flower  perfumes  the  bower, 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark,  his  lay  who  thrill'd  all  day, 

Sits  hush'd  his  partner  nigh  ; 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower,  confess  the  hour, 

But  where  is  County  Guy  .'*  — 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade, 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear; 
To  beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high, 

Sings  high-born  Cavalier. 
The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above, 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky ; 
And  high  and  low  the  influence  know  — 

But  where  is  County  Guy } 


WALTER  SCOTT.  371 

Front 
THE    MONASTERY. 

Border  Ballad. 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale, 

Why  the  deil  dinna  ye  march  forward  in  order } 
March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale, 

All  the  Blue  Bonnets  are  bound  for  the  Border. 

Many  a  banner  spread, 

Flutters  above  your  head. 
Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  story. 

Mount  and  make  ready  then. 

Sons  of  the  mountain  glen, 
Fight  for  the  Queen  and  our  old  Scottish  glory. 

Come  from  the  hills  where  your  hirsels  are  grazing. 

Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the  roe ; 
Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is  blazing, 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance,  and  the  bow. 

Trumpets  are  sounding. 

War-steeds  are  bounding. 
Stand  to  your  arms,  and  march  in  good  order, 

England  shall  many  a  day 

Tell  of  the  bloody  fray. 
When  the  Blue  Bonnets  came  over  the  Border. 


GEORGE   NOEL    GORDON  BYRON.  377 

Goldsmith  died,  and  the  first  great  poet  of  the  new,  free  rule. 
Scott,  too,  was  an  independent  ;  but  a  greater  power  than 
he  was  the  "  Revolutionary  poet,"  Byron,  who  studied  and 
praised  Pope,  but  who  wrote  with  the  freedom  and  ease  and 
grace  which  make  this  great  century  of  our  own  one  of  the 
golden  ages  of  English  poetry. 


.••> 


From 
ENGLISH    BARDS    AND    SCOTCH    REVIEWERS. 

Behold  !  in  various  throngs  the  scribbling  crew, 
For  notice  eager,  pass  in  long  review : 
Each  spurs  his  jaded  Pegasus  apace. 
And  rhyme  and  blank  maintain  an  equal  race ; 
Sonnets  on  sonnets  crowd,  and  ode  on  ode ; 
And  tales  of  terror  jostle  on  the  road ; 
Immeasurable  measures  move  along ; 
For  simpering  Folly  loves  a  varied  song. 
To  strange  mysterious  Dulness  still  the  friend, 
Admires  the  strain  she  cannot  comprehend. 
Thus  Lays  of  Minstrels  —  may  they  be  the  last ! 
On  half-strung  harps  whine  mournful  to  the  blast, 
While  mountain  spirits  prate  to  river  sprites, 
That  dames  may  listen  to  their  .ound  at  nights; 
And  goblin  brats,  of  Gilpin  Horner's  brood, 
Decoy  young  border-nobles  through  the  wood, 
And  skip  at  every  step.  Lord  knows  how  high, 
And  frighten  foolish  babes,  the  Lord  knows  why ; 
While  high-born  ladies  in  their  magic  cell, 
Forbidding  knights  to  read  who  cannot  spell, 
Despatch  a  courier  to  a  wizard's  grave, 
And  fio-ht  with  honest  men  to  shield  a  knave. 

Next  view  in  state,  proud  prancing  on  his  roan. 
The  golden-crested  haughty  Marmion, 

378 


GEORGE  NOEL    GORDON  BYRON.  379 

Now  forging  scrolls,  now  foremost  in  the  fight, 

Not  quite  a  felon,  yet  but  half  a  knight, 

The  gibbet  or  the  field  prepared  to  grace  — 

A  mighty  mixture  of  the  great  and  base. 

And  think'st  thou,  Scott  !  by  vain  conceit  perchance, 

On  public  taste  to  foist  thy  stale  romance. 

Though  Murray  with  his  Miller  may  combine 

To  yield  thy  muse  just  half-a-crown  per  line  ? 

No  !  when  the  sons  of  song  descend  to  trade, 

Their  bays  are  sear,  their  former  laurels  fade. 

Let  such  forego  the  poet's  sacred  name, 

Who  rack  their  brains  for  lucre,  not  for  fame  : 

Low  may  they  sink  to  merited  contempt, 

And  scorn  remunerate  the  mean  attempt  ! 

Such  be  their  meed,  such  still  the  just  reward 

Of  prostituted  muse  and  hireling  bard  ! 

For  this  we  spurn  Apollo's  venal  son, 

And  bid  a  long  **  good  night  "  to  Marmion. 

•    These  are  the  themes  that  claim  our  plaudits  now  ; 

These  are  the  bards  to  whom  the  muse  must  bow  : 

While  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope,  alike  forgot. 

Resign  their  hallow'd  bays  to  Walter  Scott. 

The  time  has  been  when  yet  the  muse  was  young. 
When  Homer  swept  the  lyre,  and  Maro  sung. 
An  epic  scarce  ten  centuries  could  claim. 
While  awe-struck  nations  hail'd  the  magic  name  : 
The  work  of  each  immortal  bard  appears 
The  single  wonder  of  a  thousand  years. 
Empires  have  moulder'd  from  the  face  of  earth, 
Tongues  have  expired  with  those  who  gave  them  birth. 


380  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Without  the  glory  such  a  strain  can  give, 

As  even  in  ruin  bids  the  language  live. 

Not  so  with  us,  though  minor  bards,  content, 

On  one  great  work  a  life  of  labour  spent  : 

With  eagle  pinions  soaring  to  the  skies. 

Behold  the  ballad  monger,  Southey,  rise  ! 

To  him  let  Camoens,  Milton,  Tasso,  yield. 

Whose  annual  strains,  like  armies,  take  the  field. 

First  in  the  ranks  see  Joan  of  Arc  advance. 

The  scourge  of  England,  and  the  boast  of  France ! 

Though  burnt  by  wicked  Bedford  for  a  witch. 

Behold  her  statue  placed  in  glory's  niche. 

Her  fetters  burst,  and  just  released  from  prison, 

A  virgin  Phoenix  from  her  ashes  risen. 

Next  see  tremendous  Thalaba  come  on, 

Arabia's  monstrous,  wild,  and  wondrous  son ; 

Domdaniel's  dread  destroyer,  who  o'erthrew 

More  mad  magicians  than  the  world  e'er  knew. 

Immortal  hero  !  all  thy  foes  o'ercome. 

For  ever  reign  —  the  rival  of  Tom  Thumb  ! 

Since  startled  metre  fled  before  thy  face, 

Well  wert  thou  doom'd  the  last  of  all  thy  race ! 

Well  might  triumphant  Genii  bear  thee  hence. 

Illustrious  conqueror  of  common  sense ! 

Now,  last  and  greatest,  Madoc  spreads  his  sails, 

Cacique  in  Mexico,  and  Prince  in  Wales ; 

Tells  us  strange  tales,  as  other  travellers  do, 

More  old  than  Mandeville's,  and  not  so  true. 

Oh  !  Southey,   Southey  !  cease  thy  varied  song  ! 

A  Bard  may  chaunt  too  often  and  too  long : 


GEORGE   NOEL    GORDON  BYRON.  381 

As  thou  art  strong  in  verse,  in  mercy  spare  ! 
A  fourth,  alas  !  were  more  than  we  could  bear. 
But  if,  in  spite  of  all  the  world  can  say, 
Thou  still  wilt  verseward  plod  thy  weary  way ; 
If  still  in  Berkley  ballads,  most  uncivil. 
Thou  wilt  devote  old  women  to  the  devil, 
The  babe  unborn  thy  dread  intent  may  rue ; 
"  God  help  thee,"  Southey,  and  thy  readers  too. 

Next  comes  the  dull  disciple  of  thy  school, 
That  mild  apostate  from  poetic  rule, 
The  simple  Wordsworth,  framer  of  a  lay 
As  soft  as  evening  in  his  favourite  May ; 
Who  warns  his  friend  "  to  shake  off  toil  and  trouble ; 
And  quit  his  books,  for  fear  of  growing  double  "; 
Who,  both  by  precept  and  example,  shows 
That  prose  is  verse,  and  verse  is  merely  prose, 
Convincing  all,  by  demonstration  plain, 
Poetic  souls  delight  in  prose  insane ; 
And  Christmas  stories,  tortured  into  rhyme, 
Contain  the  essence  of  the  true  sublime  : 
Thus  when  he  tells  the  tale  of  Betty  Foy, 
The  idiot  mother  of  "an  idiot  Boy  "; 
A  moon-struck  silly  lad  who  lost  his  way, 
And,  like  his  bard,  confounded  night  with  day ; 
So  close  on  each  pathetic  part  he  dwells, 
And  each  adventure  so  sublimely  tells, 
That  all  who  view  the  "idiot  in  his  glory," 
Conceive  the  Bard  the  hero  of  the  story. 

Shall  gentle  Coleridge  pass  unnoticed  here, 
To  turgid  ode  and  tumid  stanza  dear  ? 


382  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Though  themes  of  innocence  amuse  him  best, 
Yet  still  obscurity  's  a  welcome  guest. 
If  Inspiration  should  her  aid  refuse 
To  him  who  takes  a  Pixy  for  a  Muse, 
Yet  none  in  lofty  numbers  can  surpass 
The  bard  who  soars  to  elegize  an  ass. 
How  well  the  subject  suits  his  noble  mind  ! 
"A  fellow-feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind  !  " 


THE   DESTRUCTION    OF    SENNACHERIB. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea. 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green. 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen  : 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn  hath  blown. 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  wither'd  and  strown. 

For  the  angel  of  death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  pass'd ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  wax'd  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for  ever  grew  still. 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide. 
But  through  it  there  roll'd  not  the  breath  of  his  pride : 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 


GEORGE   NOEL    GORDON  BYRON  383 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail ; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword. 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord  ! 


From 

CHILDE   HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 

CANTO    III. 

Clear,  placid  Leman  !  thy  contrasted  lake. 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction ;  once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved, 
That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so 
moved. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen. 
Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 


384  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Precipitously  steep  ;  and,  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar. 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more. 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  and  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill ; 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil. 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

Ye  stars  !  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven  ! 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires,  —  't  is  to  be  forgiven. 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you ;  for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar, 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  themselves 
a  star. 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still  —  though  not  in  sleep. 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most ; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too  deep  :  — 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still :  from  the  high  host 


GEORGE   NOEL    GORDON  BYRON.  385 

Of  stars,  to  the  luU'd  lake  and  mountain-coast, 
All  is  concenter'd  in  a  life  intense, 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone ; 
A  truth,  which  through  our  being  then  doth  melt. 
And  purifies  from  self  :  it  is  a  tone. 
The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes  known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm. 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone, 
Binding  all  things  with  beauty;  — 't  would  disarm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power  to  harm. 

Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 
Of  earth-o'ergazing  mountains,  and  thus  take 
A  fit  and  unwall'd  temple,  there  to  seek 
The  spirit,  in  whose  honour  shrines  are  weak, 
Unrear'd  of  human  hands.      Come,  and  compare 
Columns  and  idol-dwellings,  Goth  or  Greek, 
With  nature's  realms  of  worship,  earth  and  air, 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy  prayer ! 

FrojH 
CANTO    IX. 

I  STOOD  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand  : 


386  TWELVE   ENGLISH  FOETS. 

I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand. 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  times  when  many  a  subject  land 
Look'd  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred 
isles ! 

She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean. 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers. 
And  such  she  was  ;- — her  daughters  had  their  dowers 
From  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaustless  East 
Pour'd  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  showers : 
In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 
Monarchs  partook,  and  deem'd  their  dignity  increased. 

In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more. 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier ; 
Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore. 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear : 
Those  days  are  gone  —  but  beauty  still  is  here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade  —  but  Nature  doth  not  die ; 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear. 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity. 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy ! 

But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 
Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 


GEORGE   NOEL    GORDON  BYRON.  3S7 

Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despond 
Above  the  dogeless  city's  vanish'd  sway; 
Ours  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Rialto  ;  Shylock  and  the  Moor, 
And  Pierre,  cannot  be  swept  or  worn  away  — 
The  keystones  of  the  arch !  though  all  were  o'er, 
For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 

*  *  *  * 

In  Santa  Croce's  holy  precincts  lie 
Ashes  which  make  it  holier,  dust  which  is 
Even  in  itself  an  immortality. 

Though  there  were  nothing  save  the  past,  and  this. 
The  particle  of  those  sublimities 
Which  have  relapsed  to  chaos  :  —  here  repose 
Angelo's,  Alfieri's  bones,  and  his, 
The  starry  Galileo,  with  his  woes ; 
Here  Machiavelli's  earth  returned  to  whence  it  rose. 

These  are  four  minds,  which,  like  the  elements, 

Might  furnish  forth  creation  : — Italy  ! 

Time,  which  hath  wrong'd  thee  with  ten  thousand 

rents 
Of  thine  imperial  garment,  shall  deny. 
And  hath  denied,  to  every  other  sky. 
Spirits  which  soar  from  ruin: — thy  decay 
Is  still  impregnate  with  divinity. 
Which  gilds  it  with  revivifying  ray  ; 
Such  as  the  great  of  yore,  Canova  is  to-day. 


388  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

But  where  repose  the  all  Etruscan  three  — 
Dante,  and  Petrarch,  and,  scarce  less  than  they, 
The  Bard  of  Prose,  creative  spirit  !  he 
Of  the  Hundred  Tales  of  love  —  where  did  they  lay 
Their  bones,  distinguish'd  from  our  common  clay 
In  death  as  life  ?     Are  they  resolved  to  dust. 
And  have  their  country's  marbles  nought  to  say  ? 
Could  not  her  quarries  furnish  forth  one  bust  ? 
Did  they  not  to  her  breast  their  filial  earth  entrust  ? 

Ungrateful  Florence  !     Dante  sleeps  afar, 
Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore ; 
Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war, 
Proscribed  the  bard  whose  name  for  evermore 
Their  children's  children  would  in  vain  adore 
With  the  remorse  of  ages ;  and  the  crown 
Which  Petrarch's  laureate  brow  supremely  wore, 
Upon  a  far  and  foreign  soil  had  grown. 
His  life,  his  fame,  his  grave,  though  rifled  —  not  thine 
own. 

Boccaccio  to  his  parent  earth  bequeath'd 
His  dust,  — and  lies  it  not  her  great  among. 
With  many  a  sweet  and  solemn  requiem  breathed 
O'er  him  who  form'd  the  Tuscan's  siren  tongue  ? 
That  music  in  itself,  whose  sounds  are  song. 
The  poetry  of  speech  ?     No  ;  —  even  his  tomb 
Uptorn,  must  bear  the  hyaena  bigot's  wrong. 
No  more  amidst  the  meaner  dead  find  room, 
Nor  claim  a  passing  sigh,  because  it  told  for  wJwin! 


GEORGE   NOEL   GORDON  BYRON.  389 

And  Santa  Croce  wants  their  mighty  dust ; 
Yet  for  this  want  more  noted,  as  of  yore 
The  Caesar's  pageant,  shorn  of  Brutus'  bust, 
Did  but  of  Rome's  best  son  remind  her  more  : 
Happier  Ravenna !  on  thy  hoary  shore. 
Fortress  of  falHng  empire  !  honour'd  sleeps 
The  immortal  exile ;  —  Arqua,  too,  her  store 
Of  tuneful  relics  proudly  claims  and  keeps, 
While  Florence  vainly  begs  her  banish'd  dead  and  weeps. 

What  is  her  pyramid  of  precious  stones  ? 
Of  porphyry,  jasper,  agate,  and  all  hues 
Of  gem  and  marble,  to  encrust  the  bones 
Of  merchant-dukes  ?  the  momentary  dews 
Which,  sparkling  to  the  twilight  stars,  infuse 
Freshness  in  the  green  turf  that  wraps  the  dead. 
Whose  names  are  mausoleums  of  the  muse. 
Are  gently  prest  with  far  more  reverent  tread 
Than  ever  paced  the  slab  which  paves  the  princely  head. 


Oh  Rome  !  my  country  !  city  of  the  soul ! 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee, 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires  !  and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance }     Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  ye  ! 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day  — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 


390  TWELVE    ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  Niobe  of  nations  !  there  she  stands, 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe, 
An  empty  urn  within  her  wither'd  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scatter'd  long  ago ; 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now ; 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers :  dost  thou  flow, 
Old  Tiber  !  through  a  marble  wilderness  ? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress  ! 
*  *  *  * 

Arches  on  arches  !  as  it  were  that  Rome, 
Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line. 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one  dome. 
Her  Coliseum  stands ;  the  moon-beams  shine 
As  'twere  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should  be  the  light  which  streams  here,  to  illume 
This  long-explored  but  still  exhaustless  mine 
Of  contemplation ;  and  the  azure  gloom 
Of  an  Italian  night,  where  the  deep  skies  assume 

Hues  which  have  words,  and  speak  to  ye  of  heaven, 
Floats  o'er  this  vast  and  wondrous  monument. 
And  shadows  forth  its  glory.     There  is  given 
Unto  the  things  of  earth,  which  time  hath  bent, 
A  spirit's  feeling,  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is  a  power 
And  magic  in  the  ruined  battlement. 
For  which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,  and  wait  till  ages  are  its  dower. 
*         *  *         * 


GEORGE  NOEL    GORDON  BYRON.  391 

And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 
In  murmur'd  pity,  or  loud-roar'd  applause, 
As  man  was  slaughter'd  by  his  fellow  man. 
And  wherefore  slaughter'd  ?  wherefore,  but  because 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws, 
And  the  imperial  pleasure.  —  Wherefore  not .-' 
What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms  —  on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot .-' 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 

I  see  before  me  the  gladiator  lie : 
He  leans  upon  his  hand  —  his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  his  droop'd  head  sinks  gradually  low  — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower  ;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him  —  he  is  gone. 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hail'd  the  wretch 
who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not  —  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away; 
He  reck'd  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play; 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother —  he,  their  sire, 
Butcher'd  to  make  a  Roman  holiday  — 
All  this  rush'd  with  his  blood  —  Shall  he  expire, 
And  unavenged  .■* — Arise  !  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire. 


392  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

But  here,  where  murder  breathed  her  bloody  steam, 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the  ways, 
And  roar'd  or  murmur'd  Hke  a  mountain  stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays ; 
Here,  where  the  Roman  million's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd. 
My  voice  sounds  much  —  and  fall  the  stars'  faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void  —  seats  crush'd  —  walls  bow'd  — 
And  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes  strangely  loud. 

A  ruin  —  yet  what  ruin  !  from  its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  rear'd ; 
Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass 
And  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have  appear'd. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plunder'd,  or  but  clear'd? 
Alas  !  developed,  opens  the  decay, 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  near'd  : 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day. 
Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man,  have  rent 
away. 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there ; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  time, 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland-forest,  which  the  gray  walls  wear. 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head  ; 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not  glare. 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead: 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot — 't  is  on  their  dust  ye  tread. 


GEORGE  NOEL    GORDON  BYRON.  393 

"While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand; 

When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall ; 

And  when  Rome  falls  —  the  world."     From  our  own 

land 
Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient ;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unalter'd  all ; 
Rome  and  her  ruin  past  redemption's  skill. 
The  world,  the  same  wide  den  —  of  thieves,  or  what  ye 
will. 

Simple,  erect,  severe,  austere,  sublime  — 

Shrine  of  all  saints,  and  temple  of  all  gods. 

From  Jove  to  Jesus  —  spared  and  blest  by  time ; 

Looking  tranquillity,  while  falls  or  nods 

Arch,  empire,  each  thing  round  thee,  and  man  plods 

His  way  through  thorns  to  ashes  —  glorious  dome  ! 

Shalt  thou   not   last  .'*      Time's   scythe  and   tyrants' 

rods 
Shiver  upon  thee  —  sanctuary  and  home 
Of  art  and  piety  —  Pantheon  !  —  pride  of  Rome  ! 

Relic  of  nobler  days,  and  noblest  arts ; 
Despoil'd  yet  perfect,  with  thy  circle  spreads 
A  holiness  appealing  to  all  hearts  — 
To  art  a  model ;  and  to  him  who  treads 
Rome  for  the  sake  of  ages,  glory  sheds 
Her  light  through  thy  sole  aperture;  to  those 
Who  worship,  here  are  altars  for  their  beads ; 


394  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  they  who  feel  for  genius  may  repose 
Their  eyes  on  honour'd  forms,  whose  busts  around  them 
close. 

*         *         *         * 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes. 
By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  nature  more. 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before. 
To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark-blue  ocean  —  roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin  —  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ;  —  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own. 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain. 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan. 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoffin'd,  and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths,  — thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him,  —  thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee ;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise. 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies. 


GEORGE  NOEL    GORDON  BYRON.  395 

And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth  :  —  there  let  him  lay. 

The  armaments  which  thunder-strike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake. 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war ; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake. 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee. 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they .'' 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts  :  —  not  so  thou. 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play  — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests;  in  all  time. 
Calm  or  convulsed  —  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving;  —  boundless,  endless,  and  sublime  — 


396  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  image  of  eternity  —  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 


From 
THE    PRISONER    OF    CHILLON. 

Eternal  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind ! 

Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty !  thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart  — 

The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind ; 

And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd  — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom. 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 

And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 

Chillon  !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place. 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar  —  for  't  was  trod. 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod. 

By  Bonnivard  !  —  May  none  those  marks  efface! 

For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


GEORGE   NOEL    GORDON  BYRON.  397 

From 
MANFRED. 

Act   III.,   Scene  iv. 

Manfred. 

The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 

Of  the  snow-shining  mountains.  —  Beautiful ! 

I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 

Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 

Than  that  of  man  ;  and  in  her  starry  shade 

Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 

I  learn'd  the  language  of  another  world, 

I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth. 

When  I  was  wandering,  —  upon  such  a  night 

I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall 

'Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome ; 

The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 

Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 

Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin  ;  from  afar 

The  watch-dog  bay'd  beyond  the  Tiber ;  and 

More  near  from  out  the  Cassar's  palace  came 

The  owl's  long  cry,  and  interruptedly, 

Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 

Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 

Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 

Appear'd  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood 

Within  a  bow-shot — where  the  Caesars  dwelt. 

And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 

A  grove  which  springs  through  levell'd  battlements, 


398  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths, 

Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth  ;  — 

But  the  gladiator's  bloody  Circus  stands, 

A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection  ! 

While  Caesar's  chambers,  and  the  Augustan  halls, 

Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay. 

And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 
All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light. 
Which  soften'd  down  the  hoar  austerity 
Of  rugged  desolation,  and  fill'd  up, 
As  't  were  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries  : 
Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so. 
And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 

With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old  ! 

The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns.  — 


From 
DON   JUAN. 
CANTO    III.  , 

The  isles  of  Greece  !  the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace,  — 

Where  Delos  rose  and  Phoebus  sprung ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet. 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 


GEORGE   NOEL    GORDON  BYRON.  399 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 

The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 
Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse  ; 

Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 
To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 
Than  your  sires'  "  Islands  of  the  Bless'd." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon  — 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea ; 
And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free  ; 
For,  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 
I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis ; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations  ;  —  all  were  his  ! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day  — 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they  ? 

And  where  are  they  ?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country  ?     On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now  — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine. 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  ? 

'T  is  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 

Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race,    . 
To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame. 


400  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face ; 
For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 
For  Greeks  a  blush  —  for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  bless'd  ? 

Must  we  but  blush  ?  —  Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae. 

What,  silent  still  t  and  silent  all  .^ 
Ah  !  no  ;  —  the  voices  of  the  dead 

Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 
And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head, 

But  one  arise,  —  we  come,  we  come  !  " 

'T  is  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain  —  in  vain  ;   strike  other  chords  ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine  ! 
Hark  !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call  — 
How  answers  each  bold  bacchanal ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet. 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one } 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave  — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave .-' 


GEORGE   NOEL    GORDON  BYRON.  401 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these  ! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine  : 

He  served  —  but  served  Poly  crates  — 
A  tyrant ;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend  ; 

That  tyrant  was  Miltiades  ! 

Oh  !  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 

Another  despot  of  the  kind  ! 

Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

On  Suli's  rock  and  Parga's  shore 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore ; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks  — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells. 

In  native  swords  and  native  ranks 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells  ; 

But  Turkish  force  and  Latin  fraud 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade  — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine; 


402  TWELVE    ENGLISH  POETS. 

But,  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves. 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep  — 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep ; 
There  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die. 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine  — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 


XI.   WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 

1770-1850. 

The  glory  of  the  North  of  England  is  the  Lake  Country, 
and  the  glory  of  the  Lake  Country  is  Wordsworth.  In  Cum- 
berland, the  land  of  hollows,  and  Westmoreland,  the  land  of 
the  western  moors,  with  a  part  of  Lancaster,  the  camp  on 
the  Lune,  between  them,  lies  the  Lake  district.  It  has  long 
been  famed  for  its  noble  hills,  Skiddaw  and  Saddleback, 
Helvellyn  and  Crossfell;  for  its  rivers,  the  Eden,  the  Esk, 
the  Derwent,  and  the  Duddon  ;  for  its  waters,  meres,  and 
tarns  —  Windermere,  Grasmere,  and  Rydalmere,  Ullswater, 
Derwentwater,  Coniston  Water,  all  the  lovely  chain  of  lakes, 
large  and  small,  which  have  given  a  name  to  the  country- 
side. But  it  was  reserved  for  three  young  men,  poor  and 
unknown  all  of  them  at  the  outset  of  their  career,  to  give  to 
the  Lake  Country  its  best  fame,  to  England  two  Laureates, 
and  to  English  poetry  "  The  Lake  School." 

These  three,  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  and  Southey,  came 
to  live  in  Cumberland  at  the  very  end  of  the  last  century. 
They  were  already  bound  together  by  early  friendship  and  by 
early  enthusiasms  —  for  Liberty,  as  they  saw  her  stirring  in 
France  in  the  Revolution,  for  Equality  and  Fraternity,  and, 
above  all,  for  poetry,  which  they  felt  called  to  comprehend 
and  to  create.  Southey  was  a  man  of  letters,  a  scholar,  a 
devourer  of  books.  He  was  poor  and  generous.  He  set- 
tled down  at  Keswick,  and  for  fifty  years  toiled  patiently  to 
meet  his  own  responsibilities,  and  as  many  other  people's  as 

403 


404  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

possible.  He  wrote  book  reviews,  histories,  biographies, 
essays,  and  half  a  dozen  epics,  more  or  less — "Joan  of 
Arc,"  and  "  Thalaba,"  and  "  Kehama,"  and  "  Madoc  "  — 
and  in  1813  was  made  Poet  Laureate.  He  was  entirely 
uninspired,  and  thought  himself  great  at  the  only  point 
where  he  was  small  —  his  verse-making.  He  was  one  of 
the  noblest  of  English  gentlemen  and  one  of  the  most  tedi- 
ous of  English  poets,  "  whose  epics  will  be  read  when  Homer 
and  Virgil  are  forgotten  —  but  not  till  then."  Coleridge  was 
one  of  the  great  geniuses.  But  he  had  not  "  the  ruling  fac- 
ulty," and  his  life  and  work  are  like  scattered  fragments  of 
what  might  have  been  a  glorious  whole.  By  turns  a  Cam- 
bridge student,  a  private  in  the  ranks,  a  Unitarian  preacher, 
a  journalist,  a  secretary,  a  lecturer,  a  student  of  German 
metaphysics,  he  was  always  a  brilliant  and  profoun4  critic, 
and  for  one  marvelous  year  —  his  twenty-fifth  year,  when  he 
wrote  "  Christabel "  and  "  The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mar- 
iner "  —  a  great  poet.  His  eloquence  was  a  spell  which  for 
years  held  his  hearers  in  bonds.  He  ate  opium  and  talked, 
while  Southey,  his  brother-in-law,  worked  early  and  late  to 
support  the  Coleridge  family  at  Keswick.  So  the  flame 
of  his  genius  flashed  up,  burned  with  an  unsteady  light,  and 
went  out  in  darkness. 

Wordsworth,  greatest  of  the  three,  was  the  Lake  Poet, 
whose  friends  were  classed  with  him  at  first  by  way  of  ridi- 
cule, and  then  by  association  of  place  and  companionship, 
never  because  their  work  was  in  any  degree  alike.  Born  at 
Cockermouth  in  1770,  he  spent  his  boyhood  in  rambling 
over  the  hills  and  dales  until  he  knew  every  rock  and  tarn 
and  fell  and  fall  by  heart.  He  was  left  an  orphan  when  a 
little  boy,  and  an  uncle  sent  him  to  Cambridge,  gave  him  a 
trip  abroad,  and  then  asked  him  to  face  the  practical  ques- 
tion of  earning  a  living.      But  he  turned  with  distaste  from 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  405 

one  profession  after  another,  and  seemed  "  an  unpromising 
and  rather  discouraging  young  man."  A  young  friend,  how- 
ever, seeing  in  him  uncommon  powers,  left  him  a  legacy  of 
nine  hundred  pounds.  His  "  exquisite  sister  Dorothy " 
joined  to  this  her  fortune,  one  hundred  pounds,  and  with 
this  little  sum  the  two  went  into  Dorsetshire  and  began 
their  ideal  life  of  "  plain  living  and  high  thinking."  Pas- 
sionate lovers  of  nature,  they  promised  themselves  to  make 
poetry  do  justice  to  her  charms,  and  this  life-work  Words- 
worth began  at  twenty-two.  Coleridge  was  then  living  near 
them,  and  they  met  and  were  friends  on  the  moment.  For 
twelve  months  he  and  Wordsworth  walked  and  talked  and 
improvised  verses  and  theorized  about  poetry  together,  while 
Dorothy,  a  most  artistic  listener  and  a  frugal  and  dainty 
housewife,  alternately  provided  for  their  comfort  and  fur- 
nished a  stimulating  audience  for  their  poems. 

Wordsworth  at  this  beginning  of  his  life  declared,  and 
for  sixty  years  stood  by  and  defended,  the  two  theories 
which  characterize  his  work.  He  said  that  it  was  the  true 
province  of  poetry  to  show  the  beauty,  the  value,  and  the 
power  of  the  every-day  life  of  men,  in  their  every-day  sur- 
roundings. 

Long  have  I  loved  what  I  behold, 

The  night  that  calms,  the  day  that  cheers, 

The  common  growth  of  Mother  Earth 

Suffices  me  —  her  tears,  her  mirth, 
Her  humblest  mirth  and  tears. 

He  said,  too,  that  there  was  properly  no  such  thing  as  the 
much-talked-of  "  poetic  diction,"  but  that  the  natural  way  of 
expressing  any  idea  was  as  suitable  in  poetry  as  it  was  in 
prose  —  "  that  the  language  of  a  large  portion  of  every  good 
poem  must  necessarily,  except  with  reference  to  the  meter, 
in  no  respect  differ  from  that  of  good  prose." 


406  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  first  theory  gave  English  poetry  some  of  its  greatest 
glories,  and  the  second,  when  carried  to  its  extreme,  some 
of  its  greatest  absurdities.  In  1798  Wordsworth  and  Cole- 
ridge published  together  "  Lyrical  Ballads  "  —  "  The  Idiot 
Boy,"  and  "Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill,"  for  example  — 
and  Coleridge's  "  The  Ancient  Mariner,"  written  to  support 
his  theory  that  the  province  of  poetry  was  to  link  nature 
with  the  supernatural,  and  to  rouse  in  men's  minds  an  awful 
interest  in  the  world  which  lies  not  around  but  just  beyond 
them. 

As  soon  as  the  book  was  published,  the  two  poets,  with 
Dorothy  in  company,  went  off  for  a  few  months  in  Germany. 
In  1799  Wordsworth  came  back  to  Cumberland,  married  a 
favorite  cousin,  Mary  Hutchinson,  and  lived  with  her  and 
her  sister,  his  sister,-  and  his  children,  a  noble,  simple, 
frugal  life,  for  half  a  century,  most  of  it  at  Rydal  Mount. 
He  lived  mainly  in  the  open  air,  improvising  poetry  as  he 
walked  —  "booing  about,"  his  neighbors  called  it  —  taking 
long  rambles  over  the  hills,  and  making  an  occasional 
trip  to  Switzerland,   Italy,   and   Scotland. 

When  he  came  back  from  Germany,  he  found  all  England 
laughing  at  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads,"  and  the  critics  declaring 
that  one  poet  was  feeble-minded,  the  other  crazy,  and  both 
very  impertinent  to  the  public.  But  Wordsworth  v/as  not 
to  be  laughed  into  silence.  He  planned  a  philosophical 
poem  "  On  Man,  Nature,  and  Society,"  in  three  parts,  of 
which  he  published  only  the  second  —  "The  Excursion." 
"  The  Prelude,"  an  account  of  the  growth  and  development 
of  his  own  mind,  was  named  and  printed  by  his  wife  after 
his  death. 

He  wrote  between  four  and  five  hundred  sonnets,  some 
of  them  among  the  finest  in  our  language. 

He  wrote  exquisite  lyrics,  "  Daffodils  "  and  "  The  Solitary 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  407 

Reaper."  He  wrote  the  classic  treasure  "  Laodamia."  He 
wrote  a  poem  to  his  wife,  "  A  creature  not  too  bright  and 
good  for  human  nature's  daily  food,"  which  ranks  with  Rich- 
ard Steele's  '*  To  love  her  was  a  liberal  education,"  as  the 
noblest  tribute  to  a  woman  from  a  poet ;  he  wrote  the  great 
ode  on  the  "Intimations  of  Immortality,"  which  Emerson 
calls  "  the  high-water  mark  which  the  intellect  of  our  age 
has  reached  "  ;  and  among  many  others  he  wrote  a  character- 
istic little  poem,  "The  Star-Gazers,"  which  deserves  study 
because  it  combines  power  and  puerility  in  true  Wordsworth- 
ian  style. 

He  is  not  the  poet  of  youth,  for  "he  has  not  humor, 
felicity,  passion,"  which  youth  demands  ;  but  he  delights 
childhood,  which  must  have  simplicity,  and  manhood,  which 
must  have  strength.  Ridiculed  unsparingly  and  almost  malig- 
nantly, slowly  appreciated,  abundantly  honored  and  revered, 
and  given  at  last  the  laureateship,  Wordsworth  lived  for 
eighty  years. 

He  lived  to  see  Scott  and  Byron  and  Moore,  and  then 
Tennyson,  all  snatch  from  him  the  bauble  of  popularity. 
But  he  is  ranked  by  late  and  great  and  wise  judges,  where 
probably  he  himself  would  have  wished  to  stand,  as  the  next 
poet  to  his  master,  Milton. 


LINES, 

COMPOSED    A    FEW    MILES    ABOVE    TINTERN    ABBEY,    ON 
REVISITING    THE    BANKS    OF    THE    WYE    DUR- 
ING   A    TOUR.       JULY     13,     1798. 

Five  years  have  past ;  five  summers,  with  the  length 

Of  five  long  winters !  and  again  I  hear 

These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain-springs 

With  a  soft  inland  murmur.  —  Once  again 

Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 

That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 

Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion  ;  and  connect 

The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 

Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 

These  plots  of  cottage-ground,  these  orchard-tufts, 

Which,  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits. 

Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 

'Mid  groves  and  copses.      Once  again  I  see 

These  hedge-rows,  hardly  hedge-rows,  little  lines 

Of  sportive  wood  run  wild  :  these  pastoral  farms. 

Green  to  the  very  door ;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 

Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees ! 

With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 

Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods. 

Or  of  some  Hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 

The  Hermit  sits  alone. 

408 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.  409 

These  beauteous  forms 
Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye : 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them. 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart ; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind. 
With  tranquil  restoration  :  —  feelings  too 
Of  unremembered  pleasure  :  such,  perhaps. 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life. 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift. 
Of  aspect  more  sublime ;  that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery. 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world, 
Is  lightened  :  —  that  serene  and  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on,  — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul  : 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 

Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh  !  how  oft  — 


410  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight ;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart  — 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee, 

0  sylvan  Wye  !  thou  wanderer  thro'  the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee ! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half  extinguished  thought, 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity. 
The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again ; 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope. 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was  when  first 

1  came  among  these  hills  ;  when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 

•  Wherever  nature  led  :  more  like  a  man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.      For  nature  then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days. 
And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all.  —  I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  Hke  a  passion  :  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colors  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  411 

An  appetite  ;  a  feeling  and  a  love, 

That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 

By  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 

Unborrowed  from  the  eye.  —  That  time  is  past, 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 

And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 

Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur  ;  other  gifts 

Have  followed  ;  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe. 

Abundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learned 

To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth  ;  but  hearing  often  times 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity. 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 

To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 

And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air. 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man : 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought. 

And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods. 

And  mountains ;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 

From  this  green  earth  ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 

Of  eye,  and  ear,  — both  what  they  half  create. 

And  what  perceive ;  well  pleased  to  recognize 

In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense. 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 


412  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance. 
If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay  : 
For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river ;  thou  my  dearest  Friend, 
My  dear,  dear  Friend ;  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh  !  yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once. 
My  dear,  dear  Sister !  and  this  prayer  I  make 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her ;  't  is  her  privilege 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy  :  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues. 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk ; 
And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee :  and,  in  after  years, 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  413 

When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 

Into  a  sober  pleasure  ;  when  thy  mind 

Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 

Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies;  oh!  then, 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 

Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 

Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me. 

And  these  my  exhortations  !     Nor,  perchance  — 

If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 

Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 

Of  past  existence  —  wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 

We  stood  together ;  and  that  I,  so  long 

A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 

Unwearied  in  that  service :  rather  say 

With  warmer  love  —  oh  !  with  far  deeper  zeal 

Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget, 

That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 

Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 

And  this  green  pastoral  landscape  were  to  me 

More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake ! 


Frotn 

PETER   BELL. 

Long  have  I  loved  what  I  behold. 

The  night  that  calms,  the  day  that  cheers ; 

The  common  growth  of  mother-earth 


414  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Suffices  me  — -  her  tears,  her  mirth, 
Her  humblest  mirth  and  tears. 

The  dragon's  wing,  the  magic  ring, 
I  shall  not  covet  for  my  dower. 
If  I  along  that  lowly  way 
With  sympathetic  heart  may  stray, 
And  with  a  soul  of  power. 

These  given,  what  more  need  I  desire 
To  stir,  to  soothe,  or  elevate  ? 
What  nobler  marvels  than  the  mind 
May  in  life's  daily  prospect  find, 
May  find  or  there  create  ? 


TO   THE   CUCKOO. 

0  BLITHE  New-comer  !  I  have  heard, 

1  hear  thee  and  rejoice. 

O  Cuckoo  !  shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice  .-• 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear, 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass. 
At  once  far  off,  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  Vale, 
Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  415 

Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring ! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 

No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery. 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 
I  listened  to ;  that  Cry 
Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 
In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green ; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love ; 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen. 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet : 
Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  Bird  !  the  earth  we  pace 
Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  fairy  place : 
That  is  fit  home  for  Thee ! 


416  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

IF   THIS    GREAT   WORLD. 

If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain 

Revolve  in  one  sure  track ; 
If  freedom,  set,  will  rise  again, 

And  virtue,  flown,  come  back  ; 
Woe  to  the  purblind  crew  who  fill 

The  heart  with  each  day's  care ; 
Nor  gain,  from  past  or  future,  skill 

To  bear,  and  to  forbear ! 


From 

LINES    WRITTEN    ON    THE   APPROACHING 
DEATH    OF    MR.    FOX. 

A  POWER  is  passing  from  the  earth 
To  breathless  Nature's  dark  abyss  : 
But  where  the  great  and  good  depart 
What  is  it  more  than  this  — 

That  man,  who  is  from  God  sent  forth 
Doth  yet  again  to  God  return  } 
Such  ebb  and  flow  must  ever  be. 
Then  wherefore  should  we  mourn  .'' 


SONNETS. 


COMPOSED    UPON    WESTMINSTER    BRIDGE, 
SEPTEMBER  3,   1802. 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair ; 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty  : 
This  City  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning;  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky; 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendor,  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep ! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 
Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 


IT    IS    A    BEAUTEOUS    EVENING. 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free, 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 

417 


418  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity ; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the  Sea : 

Listen  !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear  Child !  dear  Girl !  that  walkest  with  me  here, 

If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine : 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year ; 

And  worship'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 

God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 


TO   TOUSSAINT   L'OUVERTURE. 

ToussAiNT,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men  ! 
Whether  the  whistling  Rustic  tend  his  plough 
Within  thy  hearing,  or  thy  head  be  now 
Pillowed  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den  ;  — 
O  miserable  Chieftain  !  where  and  when 
Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?     Yet  die  not ;  do  thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow  : 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 
Live,  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  behind 
Powers  that  will  work  for  thee  ;  air,  earth,  and  skies  ; 
There  's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  will  forget  thee  ;  thou  hast  great  allies ; 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH.  ^      4-19 


THOUGHT  OF  A  BRITON  ON  THE  SUBJUGATION 
OF  SWITZERLAND. 

Two  Voices  are  there  ;  one  is  of  the  sea, 

One  of  the  mountains  ;  each  a  mighty  Voice. 

In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice, 

They  were  thy  chosen  music,  Liberty  ! 

There  came  a  Tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 

Thou  fought'st  against  him  ;  but  hast  vainly  striven : 

Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art  driven, 

Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 

Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft  : 

Then  cleave,  O  cleave  to  that  which  still  is  left ; 

For,  high-souled  Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it  be 

That  Mountain  floods  should  thunder  as  before, 

And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore. 

And  neither  awful  voice  be  heard  by  thee ! 


MILTON,    THOU    SHOULD'ST   BE   LIVING    AT 

THIS    HOUR. 

Milton!  thou  should'st  be  living  at  this  hour: 
England  hath  need  of  thee  :  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters  ;  altar,  sword,  and  pen. 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men ; 
Oh  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again  ; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 


420  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart : 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea ; 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way. 

In  cheerful  godliness ;  and  yet  thy  heart 

The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


NUNS    FRET    NOT    AT   THEIR    CONVENT'S 
NARROW    ROOM. 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room ; 
And  hermits  are  contented  with  their  cells. 
And  students  with  their  pensive  citadels. 
Maids  at  the  wheel,  the  weaver  at  his  loom, 
Sit  blithe  and  happy ;  bees  that  soar  for  bloom, 
High  as  the  highest  Peak  of  Furness-fells, 
Will  murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxglove  bells  : 
In  truth  the  prison,  unto  which  we  doom 
Ourselves,  no  prison  is  :  and  hence  for  me. 
In  sundry  moods,  't  was  pastime  to  be  bound 
Within  the  Sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground ; 
Pleased  if  some  Souls  (for  such  there  needs  must  be) 
Who  have  felt  the  weight  of  too  much  liberty. 
Should  find  brief  solace  there,  as  I  have  found. 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  421 

SCORN  NOT   THE  SONNET;    CRITIC,   YOU   HAVE 

FROWNED. 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet ;  Critic,  you  have  frowned, 

Mindless  of  its  just  honors  ;  with  this  key 

Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart ;  the  melody 

Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's  wound; 

A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound  ; 

With  it  Camoens  soothed  an  exile's  grief ; 

The  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle  leaf 

Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crowned 

His  visionary  brow  :  a  glow-worm  lamp. 

It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  Faeryland 

To  struggle  through  dark  ways ;  and,  when  a  damp 

Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 

The  Thing  became  a  trumpet ;  whence  he  blew 

Soul-animating  strains  —  alas,  too  few  \ 


THE   WORLD    IS    TOO    MUCH    WITH    US. 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  :  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours  ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 
This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours. 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers ; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 


422  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

It  moves  US  not.  —  Great  God  !   I  'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  : 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn  ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


STAR-GAZERS. 

What  crowd  is  this }  what  have  we  here  !  we  must  not 

pass  it  by  ; 
A  Telescope  upon  its  frame,  and  pointed  to  the  sky  : 
Long  is  it  as  a  barber's  pole,  or  mast  of  little  boat. 
Some  little  pleasure-skiff,  that  doth  on  Thames's  waters 

float. 

The  Show-man  chooses  well  his  place,  't  is  Leicester's 

busy  Square  ; 
And  is  as  happy  in  his  night,  for  the  heavens  are  blue 

and  fair ; 
Calm,    though   impatient,    is   the   crowd ;    each   stands 

ready  with  the  fee. 
And  envies  him  that 's  looking  ;  —  what  an  insight  must 

it  be ! 

Yet,  Show-man,  where  can  lie  the  cause }     Shall  thy 

implement  have  blame, 
A  boaster,  that  when  he  is  tried,  fails,  and  is  put  to 

shame.-* 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  423 

Or  is  it  good  as  others  are,  and  be  their  eyes  in  fault  ? 
Their   eyes,  or  minds  ?  or,   finally,  is  yon  resplendent 
vault  ? 

Is  nothing  of  that  radiant  pomp  so  good  as  we  have 
here  ? 

Or  gives  a  thing  but  small  delight  that  never  can  be 
dear  ? 

The  silver  moon  with  all  her  vales,  and  hills  of  might- 
iest fame. 

Doth  she  betray  us  when  they  're  seen  ?  or  are  they  but 
a  name  ? 

Or  is  it  rather  that  Conceit  rapacious  is  and  strong, 
And  bounty  never  yields  so  much  but  it  seems  to  do 

her  wrong  ? 
Or  is  it,  that  when  human  Souls  a  journey  long  have 

had 
And  are  returned  into  themselves,  they  cannot  but  be 

sad  ? 


THE  SOLITARY   REAPER. 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field. 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass  ! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself  ; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain ; 


424  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

0  listen  !  for  the  Vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  Nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 
Among  Arabian  sands  : 
A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  }  — 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 

For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things. 

And  battles  long  ago  ; 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 

Familiar  matter  of  to-day  ? 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain. 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again } 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  Maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending ; 

1  saw  her  singing  at  her  work. 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending ;  — 
I  listened,  motionless  and  still ; 
And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill. 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH.  425 

YARROW    UNVISITED. 

From  Stirling  castle  we  had  seen 
The  mazy  Forth  unravelled  ; 
Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde,  and  Tay, 
And  with  the  Tweed  had  travelled  ; 
And  when  we  came  to  Clovenford, 
Then  said  my  "  winsome  Marrow" 
"  Whate'er  betide,  we  '11  turn  aside, 
And  see  the  Braes  of  Yarrow." 

"  Let  Yarrow  folk,  f7'ae  Selkirk  town, 

Who  had  been  buying,  selling. 

Go  back  to  Yarrow,  't  is  their  own  ; 

Each  maiden  to  her  dwelling ! 

On  Yarrow's  banks  let  herons  feed, 

Hares  couch,  and  rabbits  burrow ! 

But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed, 

Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow, 

"  There  's  Galla  Water,  Leader  Haughs, 

Both  lying  right  before  us ; 

And  Dryborough,  where  with  chiming  Tweed 

The  lintwhites  sing  in  chorus  ; 

There  's  pleasant  Tiviot-dale,  a  land 

Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow : 

Why  throw  away  a  needful  day 

To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow  ? 

"  What 's  Yarrow  but  a  river  bare. 
That  glides  the  dark  hills  under? 


426  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere 

As  worthy  of  your  wonder." 

—  Strange  words  they  seemed  of  slight  and  scorn  ; 

My  True-love  sighed  for  sorrow  ; 

And  looked  me  in  the  face,  to  think 

I  thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow ! 

"Oh!  green,"  said  I,  "are  Yarrow's  holms. 
And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing ! 
Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 
But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 
O'er  hilly  path,  and  open  Strath, 
We  '11  wander  Scotland  thorough  ; 
But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 
Into  the  dale  of  Yarrow. 

"  Let  beeves  and  home-bred  kine  partake 
The  sweets  of  Burn-mill  meadow ; 
The  swan  on  still  St.  Mary's  Lake 
Float  double,  swan  and  shadow  ! 
We  will  not  see  them ;  will  not  go, 
To-day,  not  yet  to-morrow; 
Enough  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 
There  's  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 

"  Be  Yarrow  stream  unseen,  unknown  ! 

It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it  : 

We  have  a  vision  of  our  own  : 

Ah  !  why  should  we  undo  it  "i 

The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past, 

We  '11  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow  ! 


William  words  worth.  ill 

For  when  we  're  there,  although  't  is  fair, 
'Twill  be  another  Yarrow! 

"  If  Care  with  freezing  years  should  come. 

And  wandering  seem  but  folly, — 

Should  we  be  loth  to  stir  from  home. 

And  yet  be  melancholy  ; 

Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 

'Twill  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow, 

That  earth  has  something  yet  to  show, 

The  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow  !  " 


From 

THE    EXCURSION. 

BOOK    IV. 

"  As  men  from  men 
Do,  in  the  constitution  of  tht^ir  souls. 
Differ,  by  mystery  not  to  be  explained ; 
And  as  we  fall  by  various  ways,  and  sink 
One  deeper  than  another,  self-condemned, 
Through  manifold  degrees  of  grief  and  shame ; 
So  manifold  and  various  are  the  ways 
Of  restoration,  fashioned  to  the  steps 
Of  all  infirmity,  and  tending  all 
To  the  same  point,  attainable  by  all  — 
Peace  in  ourselves,  and  union  with  our  God. 

1^  'T*  ^  *v* 


428  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

I  have  seen 
A  curious  child,  who  dwelt  upon  a  tract 
Of  inland  ground,  applying  to  his  ear 
The  convolutions  of  a  smooth-lipped  shell ; 
To  which,  in  silence  hushed,  his  very  soul 
Listened  intensely  ;  and  his  countenance  soon 
Brightened  with  joy  ;  for  from  within  were  heard 
Murmurings,  whereby  the  monitor  expressed 
Mysterious  union  with  its  native  sea. 
Even  such  a  shell  the  universe  itself 
Is  to  the  ear  of  Faith  ;  and  there  are  times, 
I  doubt  not,  when  to  you  it  doth  impart 
Authentic  tidings  of  invisible  things  ; 
Of  ebb  and  flow,  and  ever-during  power ; 
And  central  peace,  subsisting  at  the  heart 
Of  endless  agitation.     Here  you  stand, 
Adore,  and  worship,  when  you  know  it  not ; 
Pious  beyond  the  intention  of  your  thought ; 
Devout  above  the  meaning  of  your  will. 
—  Yes,  you  have  felt,  and  may  not  cease  to  feel. 
The  estate  of  man  would  be  indeed  forlorn 
If  false  conclusions  of  the  reasoning  power 
Made  the  eye  blind,  and  closed  the  passages 
Through  which  the  ear  converses  with  the  heart. 
Has  not  the  soul,  the  being  of  your  life, 
Received  a  shock  of  awful  consciousness, 
In  some  calm  season,  when  these  lofty  rocks 
And  night's  approach  bring  down  the  unclouded  sky, 
To  rest  upon  their  circumambient  walls ; 
A  temple  framing  of  dimensions  vast. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH.  429 

And  yet  not  too  enormous  for  the  sound 
Of  human  anthems, — choral  song,  or  burst 
Sublime  of  instrumental  harmony. 
To  glorify  the  Eternal !     What  if  these 
Did  never  break  the  stillness  that  prevails 
Here,  —  if  the  solemn  nightingale  be  mute. 
And  the  soft  woodlark  here  did  never  chant 
Her  vespers,  —  Nature  fails  not  to  provide 
Impulse  and  utterance.     The  whispering  air 
Sends  inspiration  from  the  shadowy  heights, 
And  blind  recesses  of  the  caverned  rocks ; 
The  little  rills,  and  waters  numberless, 
Inaudible  by  daylight,  blended  their  notes 
With  the  loud  streams  :  and  often,  at  the  hour 
When  issue  forth  the  first  pale  stars,  is  heard. 
Within  the  circuit  of  this  fabric  huge, 
One  voice  —  the  solitary  raven,  flying 
Athwart  the  concave  of  the  dark  blue  dome. 
Unseen,  perchance  above  all  power  of  sight  — 
An  iron  knell  !  with  echoes  from  afar 
Faint  —  and  still  fainter  —  as  the  cry,  with  which 
The  wanderer  accompanies  her  flight 
Through  the  calm  region,  fades  upon  the  ear, 
Diminishing  by  distance  till  it  seemed 
To  expire ;  yet  from  the  abyss  is  caught  again. 
And  yet  again  recovered!  " 


430  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

SHE   WAS    A    PHANTOM    OF    DELIGHT. 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 

A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  Twilight  fair; 

Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  Dawn ; 

A  dancing  Shape,  an  Image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  way-lay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin-liberty  ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  Creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food  ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles. 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eyes  serene 

The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ; 

A  Being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A  traveller  between  life  and  death  ; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will. 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  431 

A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  angelic  light. 


SHE  DWELT  AMONG  THE  UNTRODDEN  WAYS. 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 

And  very  few  to  love : 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye  ! 
—  Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 
When  Lucy  ceased  to  be ; 
-7  But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 
The  difference  to  me  !  ^~~. 


THREE  YEARS  SHE  GREW  IN  SUN  AND 

SHOWER. 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 
Then  Nature  said,  "  A  lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown  ; 


432  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  Lady  of  my  own. 

"Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse  :  and  with  me 

The  Girl,  in  rock  and  plain. 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 

Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

"  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs  ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm. 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 

"The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 

To  her ;  for  her  the  willow  bend, 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 

Even  in  the  motions  of  the  Storm 

Grace  that  shall  mould  the  Maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

"The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  433 

"And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 
Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 
Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spake  —  The  work  was  done  - 

How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run  ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 

This  heath,  this  calm,  and  quiet  scene  r 

The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 


I    WANDERED    LONELY    AS    A    CLOUD. 

I  WANDERED  loucly  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils  ; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees. 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance. 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 


43+  TWELVE-  ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced ;  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  : 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 

In  such  a  jocund  company  : 

I  gazed— and  gazed  — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brouo-ht: 


For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood. 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


ODE. 

INTIMATIONS      OF      IMMORTALITY      FROM     RECOLLECTIONS     OF 

EARLY    CHILDHOOD. 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream. 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 

It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ; 

Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day. 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  435 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  Rose, 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare, 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair  ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go. 
That  there  hath  past  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief : 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief. 

And  I  again  am  strong ; 
The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep ; 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong ; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep. 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay  ; 
Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity. 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday  ;  — 
Thou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy 
Shepherd-boy  ! 

Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 
Ye  to  each  other  make  ;  I  see 


436  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee  ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 

My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel  —  I  feel  it  all. 

Oh  evil  day  !  if  I  were  sullen 

While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 
This  sweet  May-morning, 

And  the  Children  are  culling 
On  every  side. 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide. 

Fresh  bowers ;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm  :  — 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear! 

—  But  there  's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon. 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone : 

The  Pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting : 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting. 
And  Cometh  from  afar  : 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH.  .     437 

Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  He  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy ; 
The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended ; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away. 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own  ; 

Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind. 

And  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind. 
And  no  unworthy  aim, 
The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 

To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known. 

And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size ! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes  ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart. 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art  ! 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral. 


438  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 
And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song ; 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 
But  it  will  not  be  long 
Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 
And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "  humorous  stage  " 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage 
As  if  his  whole  vocation 
Were  endless  imitation. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  Soul's  immensity  ; 
Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep. 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 

Mighty  Prophet !  Seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find. 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave, 
A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  439 

The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight. 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life ! 

O  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive  ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest. 
With  new-fledged  hopes  still  fluttering  in  his  breast  :  — 

Not  for  these  I  raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise ; 

But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 

Of  sense  and  outward  things. 

Fallings  from  us,  vanish ings  ; 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised  : 

But  for  those  first  affections. 

Those  shadowy  recollections. 
Which  be  they  what  they  may 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day. 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing ; 


440  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence  :  truths  that  wake 

To  perish  never  ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be. 
Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither, 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither. 
And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore. 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song ! 
And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound  ! 

We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng. 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play. 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May ! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 

Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight. 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 

Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind  ; 
In  the  primal  sympathy 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  441 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be  ; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering; 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves  ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 

Is  lovely  yet  ; 
The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality  ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live. 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


ODE   TO    DUTY. 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God ! 
O  Duty !  if  that  name  thou  love 


442  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove ; 

Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 

When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free ; 

And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity  ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them ;  who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth : 
Glad  Hearts  !  without  reproach  or  blot ; 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not  : 
Oh  !  if  through  confidence  misplaced 
They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power !  around  them 
cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be. 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light. 

And  joy  its  own  security. 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 

Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold. 

Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed ; 

Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried ; 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust. 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide. 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust  : 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  443 

And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 

Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 

The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray ; 

But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul. 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires ; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires  : 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  Lawgiver  !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace  ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face. 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong ; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  Thee,  are  fresh 
and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power  ! 
I  call  thee  :  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour  ; 
Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise. 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 


444  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  confidence  of  reason  give  ; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live  ! 


CHARACTER    OF   THE    HAPPY    WARRIOR. 

Who  is  the  happy  Warrior  ?     Who  is  he 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be  ? 

It  is  the  generous  Spirit,  who,  when  brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  boyish  thought  : 
Whose  high  endeavors  are  an  inward  light 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always  bright : 
Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 
What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent  to  learn  ; 
Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there, 
But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care ; 
Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  Pain, 
And  Fear,  and  Bloodshed,  miserable  train! 
Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain ; 
In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 
Which  is  our  human  nature's  highest  dower ; 
Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves 
Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives : 
By  objects,  which  might  force  the  soul  to  abate 
Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate  ; 
Is  placable  —  because  occasions  rise 
So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice  ; 
More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more  pure. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH.  445 

As  tempted  more :  more  able  to  endure 
As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress ; 
Thence,  also,  riiore  alive  to  tenderness. 

—  'T  is  he  whose  law  is  reason  ;  who  depends 
Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends  ; 
Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 
To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill, 

And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 
Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest. 
He  labors  good  on  good  to  fix,  and  owes 
To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows  ; 

—  Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command, 
Rises  by  open  means ;  and  there  will  stand 
On  honorable  terms,  or  else  retire. 

And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire; 

Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 

Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim  ; 

And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 

For  wealth,  or  honors,  or  for  worldly  state ; 

Whom  they  must  follow  ;  on  whose  head  must  fall. 

Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all  ; 

Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife. 

Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 

A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace ; 

But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 

Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  joined 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind. 

Is  happy  as  a  Lover ;  and  attired 

With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  Man  inspired  ; 

And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps  the  law 


446  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw ; 

Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed, 

Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need  : 

—  He  who,  though  thus  endued  as  with  a  sense 

And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence. 

Is  yet  a  Soul  whose  master-bias  leans 

To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes ; 

Sweet  images  !  which,  wheresoe'er  he  be. 

Are  at  his  heart ;  and  such  fidelity 

It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve ; 

More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to  love  :  — 

'T  is,  finally,  the  Man,  who,  lifted  high. 

Conspicuous  object  in  a  Nation's  eye, 

Or  left  unthought  of  in  obscurity, — 

Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot. 

Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not  — 

Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one 

Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won  : 

Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay, 

Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray ; 

Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast. 

Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last. 

From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpast : 

Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth 

Forever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth. 

Or  he  must  fall,  to  sleep  without  his  fame. 

And  leave  a  dead  unprofitable  name  — 

Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause ; 

And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 

His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  applause : 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  447 

This  is  the  happy  Warrior ;  this  is  He 
That  every  Man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 


SO    FAIR,    SO    SWEET,    WITHAL    SO    SENSITIVE, 

So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive, 

Would  that  the  little  flowers  were  born  to  live 

Conscious  of  half  the  pleasure  that  they  give ; 

That  to  this  mountain-daisy's  self  were  known 

The  beauty  of  its  star-shaped  shadow,  thrown 

On  the  smooth  surface  of  this  naked  stone ! 

And  what  if  hence  a  bold  desire  should  mount 

High  as  the  sun,  that  he  could  take  account 

Of  all  that  issues  from  his  glorious  fount ! 

So  might  he  ken  how  by  his  sovereign  aid 

These  delicate  companionships  are  made  ; 

And  how  he  rules  the  pomp  of  light  and  shade ; 

And  were  the  Sister-power  that  rules  by  night 

So  privileged,  what  a  countenance  of  delight 

Would  through  the  clouds  break  forth  on  human  sight 

Fond  fancies  !     Wheresoe'er  shall  turn  thine  eye 

On  earth,  air,  ocean  or  the  starry  sky. 

Converse  with  Nature  in  pure  sympathy  ; 

All  vain  desires,  all  lawless  wishes  quelled, 

Be  thou  to  love  and  praise  alike  impelled 

Whatever  boon  is  granted  or  withheld. 


XII.     ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

1S09-1892. 
Claribel. 

Where  Claribel  low  lieth, 
The  breezes  pause  and  die, 
Letting  the  rose  leaves  fall ; 
But  the  solemn  oak  tree  sigheth  ~ 
Thick-leaved  ambrosial  — 
With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony, 
Where  Claribel  low  lieth. 

Crossing  the  Bar. 

Twii-fGitT  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me  ! 

And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar. 

When  I  put  out  to  sea. 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep. 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 

When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark. 

And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell. 

When  I  embark. 

For  though  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place, 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 

I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face. 

When  I  have  crossed  the  bar. 

449 


450  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

These  verses  are  the  Alpha  and  Omega  of  a  poet's 
song.  The  first  was  written  by  Alfred  Tennyson,  a  col- 
lege boy  of  twenty-one,  with  no  laurels  except  those  of  a 
Cambridge  prize  poem ;  the  last  by  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson, 
the  veteran  of  eighty-two,  the  Poet  Laureate  of  England. 
The  lifetime  between  them  was  devoted  entirely  to  the  great 
art  of  poetry  and  made  the  young  singer,  with  his  pretty 
melody  of  "Claribel,"  the  popular  English  poet  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  —  "  Our  Poet." 

The  son  of  a  retired  Lincolnshire  clergyman,  Tennyson 
was  born  in  the  rectory  of  the  hamlet  of  Somersby  in  1809. 
Miss  Thackeray  has  drawn  a  charming  sketch  of  the  little 
Tennysons,  of  whom  there  were  a  dozen  boys  and  girls, 
growing  up  in  the  early  days  of  our  century  in  a  beautiful 
English  home,  the  atmosphere  they  breathed  full  of  refine- 
ment, cultivation,  and  affection.  She  tells  pretty  stories  of 
the  three  older  sons,  who  were  all  poets;  of  little  Alfred 
coming  with  a  slate  in  his  hand  to  Charles,  the  next  older, 
and  asking  a  subject  for  a  poem  ;  then,  while  the  others  were 
all  at  church,  sitting  under  the  trees  and  writing  on  the 
flowers  in  the  garden,  modeling  his  verses  on  Thompson's 
"  Seasons,"  and  of  how  Charles  came  home,  read  the  lines 
and  handed  back  the  slate,  saying,  "Yes,  you  can  write." 
She  tells  of  the  games  they  played.  King  Arthur  and  his 
knights,  of  the  serial  stories  which,  like  the  little  Brontes, 
they  wrote  for  each  other's  amusement,  and  of  their  beautiful 
and  gentle  mother,  of  whom  her  son  wrote  in  his  "Princess": 

"  Happy  he 
With  such  a  mother.     Faith  in  womankind 
Beats  with  his  blood." 

Out  of  this  happy  childhood  Tennyson  came  as  a  young 
man  to  Cambridge  University.     His  master  was  the  distin- 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  451 

guished  Whewell,  and  his  friends  a  brilliant  group  of  the 
most  promising  young  men  of  the  day.  He  had  published, 
with  his  brother  Charles,  a  little  volume,  "  Poems  of  Two 
Brothers,"  and  in  1829  he  took  the  Chancellor's  medal  for  a 
poem,  the  first  printed  under  his  own  name,  on  "Timbuctoo." 
Some  of  the  undergraduates  were  publishing  a  little  paper 
called  the  "  Snob,"  at  the  time,  and  one  of  them  made  his  first 
appearance  in  print  with  a  burlesque  of  Tennyson,  which  he 
introduced  by  this  note  : 

To  the  Editor  of  the  Snob  : 

Sir,  —  Though  your  name  be  "  Snob,"  I  trust  that  you  will  not 
refuse  this  tiny  "  Poem  of  a  Gownsman,"  which  was,  unluckily, 
not  finished  on  the  day  appointed  for  delivery  of  the  several  copies 
of  verses  on  "  Timbuctoo."  I  thought.  Sir,  that  it  would  be  a  pity 
that  such  a  poem  should  be  lost  to  the  world,  and,  conceiving  the 
Snob  to  be  the  most  widely  circulated  periodical  in  Europe,  I  have 
taken  the  liberty  of  submitting  it  for  insertion  or  approbation. 

I  am.  Sir,  yours,  etc.,  rp 

This  saucy  freshman  of  seventeen,  poking  fun  at  the  prize 
man  of  Trinity,  was  Thackeray,  the  greatest  novelist  and 
humorist  of  the  century,  laughing  at  its  best-known  poet, 
who,  he  said  afterwards,  when  they  were  warm  friends,  was 
the  wisest  man  he  knew. 

He  was  wise  enough,  certainly,  to  fulfil  with  seriousness 
the  joking  maxim  for  poets,  which  Thackeray  afterward  put 
into  the  mouth  of  Yellowplush  :  "Its  generally  best  in  poatry 
to  understand  puffickly  what  you  mean  yourself,  and  to  igs- 
press  your  meaning  clearly  afterwoods,  in  the  simpler  words 
the  better  p'r'aps."  We  shall  find  no  thought  which  tries  to 
pass  for  profound  by  being  obscure,  no  expression  which 
shirks  the  duty  of  saying  what   it  means,  in  the  work  of 


452  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Tennyson.  This  work  began  in  the  year  1830  with  a  small 
volume,  "Poems  Chiefly  Lyrical,"  of  which  the  first  is  "Clar- 
ibel."  Another  volume  followed  in  1832  with  "  The  Lady 
of  Shalott,"  "Oenone,"  "The  Lotos  Eaters,"  and  "The 
Miller's  Daughter,"  —  said  to  have  gained  the  writer  the 
Laureateship.  Then  for  ten  years  the  poet  was  silent, 
profiting  by  some  sound  criticism  from  Christopher  North 
and  "the  scorpion,"  Lockhart.  In  1842  he  published  two 
volumes  of  poems,  including  some  of  his  best-loved  ones, 
"  Locksley  Hall,"  and  "  Dora,"  the  "  Morte  d'Arthur," 
"Ulysses,"  "Sir  Galahad,"  and  "Break,  Break,  Break," 
which  met  with  immediate  and  immense  favor.  Bulwer 
laughed  at  him,  it  is  true  ;  said  his  poetry  was  "  ladylike," 
and  called  him  "Miss  Alfred";  but  a  pension  of  two 
hundred  pounds  was  a  substantial  solace  for  so  slight  a 
wound. 

The  year  1850  was  a  golden  one  in  Tennyson's  history. 
In  this  year  he  made  his  happy  marriage  with  a  niece  of  Sir 
John  Franklin,  with  whom  he  lived  at  Farringford,  in  the 
Isle  of  Wight,  and  at  Aldworth,  in  Surrey,  for  nearly  half  a 
century,  children  and  grandchildren,  peace,  plenty,  and  honor 
surrounding  them.  In  this  year  he  wrote  his  noble  poem  "  In 
Memoriam,"  immortalizing  the  memory  of  Arthur  Hallam, 
the  dear  friend  of  his  youth,  betrothed  to  his  sister,  who  died 
suddenly  abroad  in  1833  ;  and  in  this  year,  when,  on  the 
twenty-third  of  April,  the  anniversary  of  Shakespeare's  death, 
Wordsworth,  the  Laureate,  died,  Tennyson  took 

"  The  laurel,  greener  from  the  brows 
Of  him  who  uttered  nothing  base." 

"  The  Princess,"  a  medley  of  story  and  theory  and  sweet- 
est song;   "In  Memoriam,"   the  elegy  which  sums  up  the 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  453 

hopes  and  doubts  and  fears  and  questionings  of  a  genera- 
tion; "Maud,"  tlie  monodrama,  with  its  thrilUng  love  song; 
and  "The  Idylls  of  the  King,"  which  takes  up  the  theme 
once  chosen  by  Milton,  the  story  of  Arthur  and  "that  great 
order  of  the  table  round,"  and  makes  it  live  again, — 

"  An  old  imperfect  tale 
New  old,  and  shadowing  sense  at  war  with  soul,"  — 

these  are  Tennyson's  most  important  poems,  two  of  them, 
"In  Memoriam  "  and  "The  Idylls,"  his  greatest  work.  He 
followed  them  with  six  dramas,  with  lyric  upon  lyric,  and  in 
his  extreme  old  age  with  his  graceful  picture  of  Robin  Hood 
and  his  merry  men,  his  play  of  "  The  Foresters." 

But  Tennyson  is  not  a  dramatist.  He  is  a  lyric  poet, 
with  the  sweetness  of  a  native  singer  and  the  patient  polish 
and  perfection  of  a  great  artist. 

To  think  clear  and  noble  thoughts — the  thoughts  of  a 
good  man  in  a  great  era  —  and  to  express  them  with  clear- 
ness and  beauty  was  the  work  of  Tennyson,  "  the  Galahad 
of  Song." 

He  is  said,  more  than  all  other  poets  of  his  day,  to  reflect 
his  age  in  his  work.  If  this  is  so,  we  may  take  as  its  motto 
his  own  lines  describing  a  sacred  rock  in  Siam,  whose  mark- 
ings express  the  likeness  of  Buddha  to  all  who  have  faith  to 
see  them : 

"  Phra —  Chai :  the  shadow  of  the  best." 

In  October,  1892,  Tennyson  died,  full  of  years  and  of 
honors,  and  his  death  was,  itself,  a  poem.  Lying  upon  his 
couch,  the  moonlight  streaming  in  through  the  oriel  window, 
his  outstretched  hand  resting  upon  his  copy  of  Shakespeare, 
opened  at  the  dirge  in  "  Cymbeline,"  like  David  he  "  fell  on 


454  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

sleep,"  —  the  last  of  the  great  English  singers  who,  each  in 
turn,  have  served  art  as  David  served  God,  "  in  his  own 
generation." 

Chaucer,  Spenser,  Shakespeare,  and  Milton;  Dryden,  Pope, 
Goldsmith,  and  Burns ;  Scott,  Byron,  Wordsworth,  and  Ten- 
nyson,—  these  are  the  inheritors  in  a  direct  line  of  the  great 
gift  of  English  song  ;  —  our  best  friends  — 

"  Who  gave  us  nobler  loves  and  nobler  cares. 
The  poets,  who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs, 
Of  truth  and  pure  delights  by  heavenly  lays." 


POEMS 


ST.    AGNES. 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon  : 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes  : 

May  my  soul  follow  soon! 
The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord  : 
Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies, 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  ydar 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soiled  and  dark, 

To  yonder  shining  ground  ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee  ; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am, 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
455 


456  TWELVE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Break  up  the  heavens,  O  Lord  !  and  far, 
Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen. 

Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star. 
In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go ; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strews  her  lights  below, 
And  deepens  on  and  up !  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits. 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide  — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea  — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride ! 


From 

IN    MEMORIAM. 

A.  H.  H. 

OBIIT    MDCCCXXXIII. 


I  HELD  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones. 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  457 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years, 
And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match  ? 
Or  reach  a  hand  thro'  time  to  catch 

The  far-off  interest  of  tears  ? 

Let  Love  clasp  Grief  lest  both  be  drown'd, 
Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss : 
Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss, 

To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the  ground, 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should  scorn 
The  long  result  of  love,  and  boast, 
"  Behold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn." 

II. 

Old  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones 
That  name  the  underlying  dead. 
Thy  fibres  net  the  dreamless  head, 

Thy  roots  are  wrapt  about  the  bones. 

The  seasons  bring  the  flower  again. 
And  bring  the  firstling  to  the  flock; 
And  in  the  dusk  of  thee,  the  clock 

Beats  out  the  little  lives  of  men. 

O  not  for  thee  the  glow,  the  bloom. 

Who  changest  not  in  any  gale. 

Nor  branding  summer  suns  avail 
To  touch  thy  thousand  years  of  gloom : 


458  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  gazing  on  thee,  sullen  tree, 
Sick  for  thy  stubborn  hardihood, 
I  seem  to  fail  from  out  my  blood 

And  grow  incorporate  into  thee. 

III. 

O  sorrow,  cruel  fellowship, 

O  Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death, 
O  sweet  and  bitter  in  a  breath. 

What  whispers  from  thy  lying  lip  .'' 

"The  stars,"  she  whispers,  "blindly  run; 

A  web  is  wov'n  across  the  sky  ; 

From  out  waste  places  comes  a  cry, 
And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun : 

"And  all  the  phantom.  Nature,  stands, — 
With  all  the  music  in  her  tone, 
A  hollow  echo  of  my  own,  — • 

A  hollow  form  with  empty  hands." 

And  shall  I  take  a  thing  so  blind, 
Embrace  her  as  my  natural  good ; 
Or  crush  her,  like  a  vice  of  blood, 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  mind  .'' 

IV. 

To  Sleep  I  give  my  powers  away ; 

My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark ; 

I  sit  within  a  helmless  bark. 
And  with  my  heart  I  muse  and  say : 


Alfred  tennyson.  459 

"  O  heart,  how  fares  it  with  thee  now, 
That  thou  shouldst  fail  from  thy  desire, 
Who  scarcely  darest  to  inquire 

'  What  is  it  makes  me  beat  so  low  ? '  " 

Something  it  is  which  thou  hast  lost, 
Some  pleasure  from  thine  early  years. 
Break,  thou  deep  vase  of  chilling  tears, 

That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost ! 

Such  clouds  of  nameless  trouble  cross 
All  night  below  the  darken'd  eyes ; 
With  morning  wakes  the  will,  and  cries, 

"Thou  shalt  not  be  the  fool  of  loss." 


I  sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin 
To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel ; 
For  words,  like  Nature,  half  reveal 

And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  bram, 
A  use  in  measured  language  lies ; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise. 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  I  '11  wrap  me  o'er. 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold  ; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  enfold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 


460  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

VI. 

One  writes  that  "  Other  friends  remain," 
That  "  Loss  is  common  to  the  race," — - 
And  common  is  the  commonplace, 

And  vacant  chaff  well  meant  for  grain. 

That  loss  is  common  would  not  make 
My  own  less  bitter,  rather  more : 
Too  common  !     Never  morning  wore 

To  evening,  but  some  heart  did  break. 

O  father,  wheresoe'er  thou  be, 

Who  pledgest  now  thy  gallant  son ; 
A  shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be  done, 

Hath  still'd  the  life  that  beat  from  thee. 

O  mother,  praying  God  will  save 

Thy  sailor,  —  while  thy  head  is  bow'd, 
His  heavy-shotted  hammock-shroud 

Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 

Ye  know  no  more  than  I  who  wrought 
At  that  last  hour  to  please  him  well ; 
Who  mused  on  all  I  had  to  tell, 

And  something  written,  something  thought 

Expecting  still  his  advent  home : 
And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 
With  wishes,  thinking,  "  here  to-day," 

Or  "  here  to-morrow  will  he  come." 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  461 

O  somewhere,  meek  unconscious  dove, 

That  sittest  ranging  golden  hair ; 

And  glad  to  find  thyself  so  fair, 
Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  love ! 

For  now  her  father's  chimney  glows 

In  expectation  of  a  guest ; 

And  thinking  "This  will  please  him  .best," 
She  takes  a  riband  or  a  rose ; 

For  he  will  see  them  on  to-night ; 

And  with  the  thought  her  color  burns; 

And,  having  left  the  glass,  she  turns 
Once  more  to  set  a  ringlet  right ; 

And,  ev'n  when  she  turn'd,  the  curse 
Had  fallen,  and  her  future  Lord 
Was  drown'd  in  passing  thro'  the  ford, 

Or  kill'd  in  falling  from  his  horse. 

0  what  to  her  shall  be  the  end  ? 
And  what  to  me  remains  of  good? 
To  her,  perpetual  maidenhood, 

And  unto  me  no  second  friend. 

XXVII. 

1  envy  not  in  any  moods 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage. 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage. 
That  never  knew  the  summer  woods  : 


462  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter'd  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes: 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 
The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth, 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth  ; 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall ; 

I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most ; 

'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

XXVIII. 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ : 
The  moon  is  hid  ;  the  night  is  still ; 
The  Christmas  bells  from  hill  to  hill 

Answer  each  other  in  the  mist. 

Four  voices  of  four  hamlets  round, 

From  far  and  near,  on  mead  and  moor, 
Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a  door 

Were  shut  between  me  and  the  sound : 

Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind, 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  decrease, 
Peace  and  good-will,  good-will  and  peace, 

Peace  and  good-will,  to  all  mankind. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  463 

This  year  I  slept  and  woke  with  pain, 
I  almost  wish'd  no  more  to  wake, 
And  that  my  hold  on  life  would  break 

Before  I  heard  those  bells  again : 

But  they  my  troubled  spirit  rule. 
For  they  controll'd  me  when  a  boy  ; 
They  bring  me  sorrow  touch'd  with  joy, 

The  merry,  merry  bells  of  Yule. 

LIV. 

O  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 

Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 

To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 
Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 

That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd, 

Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void. 
When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete ; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain ; 

That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 

Is  shrivell'd  in  a  fruitless  fire, 
Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold  we  know  not  anything ; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 

At  last  —  far  off  —  at  last,  to  all, 
And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 


464  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

So  runs  my  dream :  but  what  am  I  ? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 

LV. 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams  ? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to  God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope. 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all. 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  465 


LXIV. 


Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been, 
As  some  divinely  gifted  man, 
Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 

And  on  a  simple  village  green ; 

Who  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  bar, 
And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy  chance, 
And  breasts  the  blows  of  circumstance, 

And  grapples  with  his  evil  star ; 

Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known. 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden  keys. 
To  mould  a  mighty  state's  decrees, 

And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher. 
Becomes  on  Fortune's  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope, 

The  centre  of  a  world's  desire ; 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a  pensive  dream. 

When  all  his  active  powers  are  still, 
A  distant  dearness  in  the  hill, 

A  secret  sweetness  in  the  stream, 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate. 
While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  play'd  at  counsellors  and  kings. 

With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate  ; 


466  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea 
And  reaps  the  labor  of  his  hands, 
Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands  : 

"  Does  my  old  friend  remember  me  ?  " 

CIV. 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ 
The  moon  is  hid,  the  night  is  still ; 
A  single  church  below  the  hill 

Is  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 

A  single  peal  of  bells  below. 

That  wakens  at  this  hour  of  rest 
A  single  murmur  in  the  breast. 

That  these  are  not  the  bells  I  know. 

Like  strangers'  voices  here  they  sound. 
In  lands  where  not  a  memory  strays, 
Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other  days, 

But  all  is  new  unhallow'd  ground. 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky. 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow: 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  467 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause. 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin. 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times  ; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes. 

But  ring:  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 


't3 


Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite ; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right. 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease ; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old. 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand ; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land. 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


468  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

From 

THE    PRINCESS;    A    MEDLEY. 

One 
Not  learned,  save  in  gracious  household  ways, 
Not  perfect,  nay,  but  full  of  tender  wants. 
No  Angel,  but  a  dearer  being,  all  dipt 
In  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Paradise, 
Interpreter  between  the  Gods  and  men. 
Who  look'd  all  native  to  her  place,  and  yet 
On  tiptoe  seem'd  to  touch  upon  a  sphere 
Too  gross  to  tread,  and  all  male  minds  perforce 
Sway'd  to  her  from  their  orbits  as  they  moved. 
And  girded  her  with  music.      Happy  he 
With  such  a  mother  !  faith  in  womankind 
Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all  things  high 
Comes  easy  to  him,  and  tho'  he  trip  and  fall 
He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay. 

Songs. 

As  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears. 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
O  we  fell  out  I  know  not  why, 
And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years. 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
O  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  469 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go. 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow. 

Blow  him  again  to  me ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest. 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast. 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest. 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon  : 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 


The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear !  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 


470  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying : 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul. 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


"  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes. 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"  Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail. 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"  Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half -awaken' d  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


ALFRED  Tennyson:  471 

"  Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others  ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O  Death  in  life,  the  days  that  are  no  more." 


Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead 
She  nor  swoon'd,  nor  utter'd  cry : 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
"She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Call'd  him  worthy  to  be  loved. 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe  ; 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place. 
Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept. 

Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face  ; 
Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 
Set  his  child  upon  her  knee  — 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears - 
"  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 


472  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

THE    IDYLLS    OF   THE    KING. 

From 
THE    PASSING    OF   ARTHUR. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea ; 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fall'n  in  Lyonnesse  about  their  lord, 
King  Arthur:  then,  because  his  wound  was  deep. 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross. 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.     I  think  that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time. 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made,  — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more  —  but  let  what  will  be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  473 

That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 

Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 

Which  was  my  pride  :  for  thou  rememberest  how 

In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 

Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake. 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 

Holding  the  sword  —  and  how  I  row'd  across 

And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king: 

And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 

In  after-time,  this  also  shall  be  known: 

But  now  delay  not  :  take  Excalibur, 

And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere : 

Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus. 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full. 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he  stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs. 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men. 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.      He,  stepping  down 
By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock. 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o'er  him  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon, 


474  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt : 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewelry.      He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind, 
In  act  to  throw :  but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  water-flags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  king. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which  I  gave  .? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  .?  or  what  hast  heard  1  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale : 
"Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy  name. 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand. 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  475 

As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 

I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere. 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix'd  in  thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud  : — • 

"And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away. 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note. 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth. 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done  ? 
What  harm,  undone }  deep  harm  to  disobey. 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself  .'' 
The  king  is  sick,  and  k-nows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord  . 
Should  be  to  after-time,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt }  but  were  this  kept. 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms. 
Saying,  'King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  after-time 


476  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 

But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were  lost." 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  king. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily : 
"  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  .?  or  what  hast  heard  >  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag. 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in  wrath : 
"Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  !     Woe  is  me  ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king. 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.      I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights 
In  whom  should  meet  the  ofifices  of  all. 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence: 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  477 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush  beds,  and  clutch'd  the  sword. 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.     The  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd  in  an  arch. 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn. 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur: 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  king. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker  breath  : 
"  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen  .? " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw. 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die. 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men. 
So  great  a  miracle  of  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him  ; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 


478  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing  hard : 
"  My  end  draws  nigh  ;  't  is  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears. 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words. 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee. 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk'd,  King  Arthur  panted  hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sigh'd  the  king, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear,  "  Quick,  quick 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge, 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he  walk'd. 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.     His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him,  as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  479 

Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo  !  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them  ;  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream  —  by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold — and  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes. 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "  Place  me  in  the  barge," 
So  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those  three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  king,  and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap. 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  and  chafed  his  hands, 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud. 
And  dropping  bitter. tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood :  for  all  his  face  was  white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither'd  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east  ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd  with  drops 
Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls  — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 


480  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

High  from  the  dais-throne  —  were  parch'd  with  dust ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed  his  lips. 
So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  king; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
"Ah  !  my  lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go  .? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes } 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead. 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance. 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dissolved. 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world  ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless. 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds." 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the  barge : 
"The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfills  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 
Comfort  thyself :  what  comfort  is  in  me  .? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure  !  but  thou. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  4S1 

If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 

Pray  for  my  soul.       More   things   are   wrought   by 

prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore,  let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them  friend } 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewell.      I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I  go  — 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow. 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard-lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  summer  sea. 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound." 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted  swan 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death. 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.      Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn. 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 


4S2  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

At  length  he  groan'd,  and  turning  slowly  clomb 
The  last  hard  footstep  of  that  iron  crag ; 
Thence  mark'd  the  black  hull  moving  yet,  and  cried, 
"  He  passes  to  be  king  among  the  dead, 
And  after  healing  of  his  grievous  wound 
He  comes  again  ;  but  —  if  he  come  no  more  — 
O  me,  be  yon  dark  Queens  in  yon  black  boat, 
Who  shriek'd  and  wail'd,  the  three  whereat  we  gazed 
On  that  high  day,  when,  clothed  with  living  light, 
They  stood  before  his  throne  in  silence,  friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his  need  ? " 

Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem'd  there  came,  but  faint 
As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world, 
Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry, 
Sounds,  as  if  some  fair  city  were  one  voice 
Around  a  king  returning  from  his  wars. 

Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about,  and  clomb 
E'en  to  the  highest  he  could  climb,  and  saw. 
Straining  his  eyes  beneath  an  arch  of  hand. 
Or  thought  he  saw,  the  speck  that  bare  the  king, 
Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the  deep 
Somewhere  far  off,  pass  on  and  on,  and  go 
From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 
And  the  new  sun  rose  bringing  the  new  year. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  483 

SONGS.  , 

Enid's  Song. 

It  chanced  the  song  that  Enid  sang  was  one 
Of  Fortune  and  her  wheel,  and  Enid  sang : 

"  Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and  lower  the  proud  ; 
Turn  thy  wild  wheel  thro'  sunshine,  storm,  and  cloud  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate. 

"  Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  with  smile  or  frown  ; 
With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or  down  ; 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are  great. 

"  Smile  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  many  lands  ; 
Frown  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  our  own  hands  ; 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 

"Turn,  turn  thy  wheel  above  the  staring  crowd; 
Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in  the  cloud ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate." 

Vivien's  Song. 

And  Vivien,  like  the  tenderest-hearted  maid 
That  ever  bided  tryst  at  village  stile, 
Made  answer,  either  eyelid  wet  with  tears  : 
"  Nay,  master,  be  not  wrathful  with  your  maid ; 
Caress  her  :  let  her  feel  herself  forgiven 
•Who  feels  no  heart  to  ask  another  boon. 
I  think  you  hardly  know  the  tender  rhyme 
Of  '  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all' 


484  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

I  heard  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  sing  it  once, 
And  it  shall  answer  for  me.      Listen  to  it. 

"  '  In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love  be  ours. 
Faith  and  unfaith  can  ne'er  be  equal  powers  : 
Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all. 

"  'It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute, 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mute. 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

"  'The  little  rift  within  the  lover's  lute, 
Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garner'd  fruit, 
That  rotting  inward  slowly  moulders  all. 

"  '  It  is  not  worth  the  keeping  :  let  it  go  : 
But  shall  it }  answer,  darling,  answer,  no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.'  " 

Elaine's  Song. 

And  in  those  days  she  made  a  little  song, 
And  call'd  her  song  "  The  Song  of  Love  and  Death," 
And  sang  it  :  sweetly  could  she  make  and  sing. 

"  Sweet  is  true  love,  tho'  given  in  vain,  in  vain  : 
And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to  pain  : 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

"  Love,  art  thou  sweet }  then  bitter  death  must  be  : 
Love,  thou  art  bitter ;  sweet  is  death  to  me. 
O  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  485 

"  Sweet  Love,  that  seems  not  made  to  fade  away, 
Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us  loveless  clay, 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

"  I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  could  be  ; 
I  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls  for  me ; 
Call  and  I  follow,  I  follow !  let  me  die." 


The  Little  Maid's  Song  to  Guinevere. 

The  Queen  look'd  up,  and  said, 

"  O  maiden,  if  indeed  you  list  to  sing, 
Sing,  and  unbind  my  heart  that  I  may  weep." 
Whereat  full  willingly  sang  the  little  maid. 

"  Late,  late,  so  late !  and  dark  the  night  and  chill ! 
Late,  late,  so  late  !  but  we  can  enter  still. 
Too  late,  too  late !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"  No  light  had  we  :  for  that  we  do  repent ; 
And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom  will  relent. 
Too  late,  too  late !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"  No  light  :  so  late !  and  dark  and  chill  the  night  ! 
O  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light ! 
Too  late,  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"  Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom  is  so  sweet .'' 
O  let  us  in,  tho'  late,  to  kiss  his  feet ! 
No,  no,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter  now." 


486  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

SIR    GALAHAD. 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten. 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel. 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel : 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists. 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers. 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall ! 
For  them  I  battle  to  the  end. 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall : 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above. 

My  knees  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and  shrine : 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam. 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill ; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 
A  light  before  me  swims. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  487 

Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride ; 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  there ; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings. 

And  solemn  chants  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark  ; 
I  leap  on  board  :  no  helmsman  steers : 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail: 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white. 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision  !  blood  of  God  ! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars. 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides. 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go. 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn. 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads. 

And,  ringing,  spins  from  brand  and  mail ; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads. 


488  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields  : 
But  blessed  forms  in  v^^histling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A  maiden  knight  —  to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear ; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams. 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams  ; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 

This  mortal  armor  that  I  wear. 
This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod. 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear : 
"  O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God! 

Ride  on  !  the  prize  is  near." 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange ; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide. 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  489 

THE  LADY    OF    SHALOTT. 

PART  I. 

On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky  ; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-towered  Camelot ; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  forever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers. 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers. 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil'd. 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd 
By  slow  horses  ;  and  unhail'd 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail'd 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot  : 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand } 


490  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand  ? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  ? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot : 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy. 
Listening,  whispers,  "  'T  is  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott." 

PART   II. 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colors  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily. 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Windinsf  down  to  Camelot : 


't> 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  49l 

There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 

And  there  the  surly  village-churls. 

And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  tower'd  Camelot ; 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two  : 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights, 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights, 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot  : 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed ; 
"I  am  half-sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  III. 

A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves. 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves, 


492  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 
Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 

A  redcross  knight  forever  kneeled 

To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 

That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 
Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot 
And  from  his  blazon'd  baldric  slung: 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung. 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewell'd  shone  the  saddle-leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burned  like  one  burning  flame  together, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 

Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow'd ; 
On  burnish'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trode; 
Yxoxn  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  493 

His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 

From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 

He  flashed  into  the  crystal  mirror, 

"Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room. 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume. 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide ; 
The  mirror  crack'd  from  side  to  side ; 
"The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott, 

PART  IV. 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining. 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower'd  Camelot ; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat. 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse — ■ 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 


494  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

Seeing  all  his  own  mischance  — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay ; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right  — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light  — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willow  hills  and  fields  among. 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly. 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly, 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot ; 
For  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side. 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 
By  garden-wall  and  gallery. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  495 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 
A  corse  between  the  houses  high, 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came. 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this  ?  and  what  is  here  ? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer  : 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear. 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot  : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space  : 
He  said,  "  She  has  a  lovely  face  : 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK. 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea  ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy. 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad. 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 


496  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


ULYSSES. 


It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags, 

Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  meet  and  dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not  me. 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel :  I  will  drink 

Life  to  the  lees  :  all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 

Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with  those 

That  loved  me,  and  alone ;  on  shore,  and  when 

Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 

Vext  the  dim  sea :  I  am  become  a  name ; 

For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 

Much  have  I  seen  and  known ;  cities  of  men 

And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments, 

Myself  not  least,  but  honor'd  of  them  all  ; 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 

Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  497 

I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 

Gleams  that  untravell'd  world,  whose  margin  fades 

Forever  and  forever  when  I  move. 

How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 

To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use ! 

As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.      Life  piled  on  life 

Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 

Little  remains  :  but  every  hour  is  saved 

From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 

A  bringer  of  new  things  ;  and  vile  it  were 

For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself. 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 

To  follow  knowledge,  like  a  sinking  star. 

Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle  — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.      He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 

There  lies  the  port  :  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark,  broad  seas.      My  mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and  thought 
with  me  — 


498  TWELVE   ENGLISH  POETS. 

That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 

The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 

Free  hearts,  free  foreheads  —  you  and  I  are  old  ; 

Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil ; 

Death  closes  all :  but  something  ere  the  end, 

Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done. 

Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 

The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks : 

The  long  day  wanes  :  the  slow  moon  climbs  :  the  deep 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come,  my  friends, 

'T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 

Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 

The  sounding  furrows ;  for  my  purpose  holds 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 

Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down  : 

It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 

And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 

Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides ;  and  tho' 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 

Moved  earth  and  heaven  ;  that  which  we  are,  we  are  ; 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 

Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 


INDEX    OF   AUTHORS 


CHAUCER    I 

Canterbury  Tales,  The  ...  7 
Compleynte  of  Chaucer  to  his 

Purse 29 

Dethe  of  Blaunche,  the  Duch- 

esse,  The 25 

Fie  fro  the  Pres 30 

Legende  of  Goode   Women, 

The 27 

SPENSER 33 

Amoretti 6^ 

Epithalamion 54 

Faerie  Queene,  The       ...  37 

Mother  Hubberd's  Tale     .     .  65 

Shepheardes  Calender,  The    .  60 

SHAKESPEARE    ....     67 

Clown's  Song 80 

Fairy's  Song 77 

F"airies'  Song 78 

Hamlet .91 

Henry  IV.,  Part  H    .     .     .     .119 

Henry  V 122 

Henry  VIH 125 

Julius  Caesar 114 

Macbeth 87 

Merchant  of  Venice,  The  .  .105 
Othello 99 


PACE 

Richard  HI 123 

Song  of  Arviragus  and  Guide- 

rius 76 

Song,  Orpheus  with  his  Lute  82 

Song's  of  Amiens      ....  85 

Songs  of  Ariel 83 

Songs  of  Autolycus  ....  79 

Songs  of  Ophelia      ....  81 

Song  to  Imogen 76 

Song,  Who  is  Silvia      ...  84 

Sonnet  XXIX 73 

Sonnet  XXX 73 

Sonnet  LII 74 

Sonnet  I.XXIII 74 

Sonnet  CXVI 75 

MILTON 131 

Lycidas 166 

On   the  Morning  of  Christ's 

Nativity 146 

Paradise  Lost 136 

Sonnet,  On  his  Blindness  .  .173 
Sonnet,  To  the  Lord  General 

Cromwell 173 

The  Masque  of  Comus      .     .156 

DRYDEN 175 

Absalom  and  Achitophel  .  .185 
Alexander's  Feast     ....  204 


499 


500 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


■       PAGE 

All  for  Love 185 

Aureng-Zebe 1S4 

Epistle  to  Congreve .     .     .     .  192 

Iliad,  The 195 

Mac  Flecknoe 187 

Palamon  and  Arcite  .  .  .189 
Prologue  to  The  Tempest  .  188 
Song,  Ah  Fading  Joy  .  .  .181 
Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  A  202 
Song,  I  feed  a  Flame  within  .  182 
Song,  I  looked  and  saw  .  .  182 
Song  of  the  Sea-Fight   .     .     .183 

Te  Deum 190 

Under  Mr.  Milton's  Picture  .  189 
Veni  Creator  Spiritus    .     .     .212 

POPE 215 

Dunciad,  The 241 

Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  The  242 
Epitaph  on  Mrs.  Corbet  .  .  244 
Essay  on  Criticism,  The    .     .219 

Essay  on  Man 228 

Iliad,  The 244 

On  a  Certain  Lady  at  Court  .  243 
Rape  of  the  Lock,  The  .  .  238 
Universal  Prayer,  The  .     .     .   239 

GOLDSMITH     .     .     ...     .263 

Deserted  Village,  The  .  .  .  267 
Retaliation 2S1 

BURNS 285 

Ae  Fond  Kiss 304 

A  Red,  Red  Rose     .     .     .        311 

Auld  Lang  Syne 302 

Banks  o'  Doon,  The  .  .  .  307 
Bannocks  o'  Barley  ....  305 
Birks  of  Aberfeldy,  The     .     .  308 


PAGE 

Brace's  Address 301 

Come  boat  me  o'er  to  Charlie  305 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  The  292 
Flow  gently.  Sweet  Afton  .  .311 
For  a'  That,  and  a'  That  .     .  299 

Highland  Mary 309 

John  Anderson 312 

My  Heart 's  in  the  Highlands  303 
Oh,  wert   thou  in  the   Cauld 

Blast 313 

The  Gloomy  Night  is  gather- 
ing fast 306 

To  a  Mouse 290 

SCOTT 315 

Border  Ballad 371 

County  Guy 370 

Lady  of  the  Lake,  The      .     .  339 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  .     .  320 

Lord  of  the  Isles,  The  .     .     .  356 

Marmion 324 

Song  of  Rebecca,  The  .     .     .  368 

BYRON 373 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage  .  383 
Destniction  of    Sennacherib, 

The 3S2 

Don  Juan 398 

English  Bards  and  Scotch  Re- 
viewers       378 

Manfred 397 

Prisoner  of  Chillon,  The    .     .  396 

WORDSWORTH  .     .     .     .403 

Character  of  the  Happy  War- 
rior       444 

Excursion,  The 427 

If  This  Great  World     .     .     .416 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


501 


PAGE 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  Cloud  .  433 
Lines  on  Tintern  Abbey    .     .  408 
Ode,   Intimations   of  Immor- 
tality     434 

Ode  to  Duty 441 

Peter  Bell 413 

She  dwelt  among  the  Untrod- 
den Ways 431 

She  was  a   Phantom  of  De- 
light      430 

So   Fair,  so  Sweet,  withal  so 

Sensitive 447 

Solitary  Reaper,  The     .     .     .  423 
Sonnet,  Composed   upon 

Westminster  Bridge.     .     .417 
Sonnet,    It    is    a    I'.eauteous 

Evening 4^7 

Sonnet,    Milton,    thou 
should'st  be  living  at  this 

Hour 419 

Sonnet,  Nuns  fret  not  at  their 

Convent's  Narrow  Room    .  420 
Sonnet,  Scorn  not  the  Sonnet ; 
Critic,  you  have  frowned    .  421 


PAGE 

Sonnet,  The  World  is  too 
much  with  us 421 

Sonnet,  Thought  of  a  Briton 
on  the  Subjugation  of 
Switzerland 419 

Sonnet,  To  Toussaint 
L'Ouverture 418 

Star-Gazers 422 

Three  Years  she  grew  in  Sun 
and  Shower 431 

To  the  Cuckoo 414 

Yarrow  Unvisited     .     .     .     .425 

TENNYSON 449 

Break,  break,  break  ....  495 

Claribel 449 

Crossing  the  Bar 449 

Idylls  of  the  King,  The      .     .  472 

In  Memoriam •  456 

Lady  of  Shalott,  The    .     .     .489 

Princess,  The 468 

Saint  Agnes 455 

Sir  Galahad     .     .     .     .*   .     .486 
Ulysses 496 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES. 


Ae  fond  kiss  and  then  we  sever Burns  . 

Ah,  County  Guy  !  the  hour  is  nigh Scott 

Ah,  fading  joy!  liow  quickly  art  thou  past  .     .     .  Dry  den 

All  human  things  are  subject  to  decay     ....  Dryden 

And  in  those  days  she  made  a  little  song     .     .     .  Tennyson 

And  Vivien,  like  the  tenderest-heavted  maid     .     .  Tennysojt 

And  will  he  not  come  again Shakespeare 

As  men  from  men  do  in  the  constitution  of  their  souls  Wordsworth 

As  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went Tennyson  . 

As  when  a  tree  's  cut  down,  the  secret  root .      .     .  Dryden 

A  thousande  tymes  I  have  herde  telle      ....  Chancer     . 

Awake,  my  St.  John,  leave  all  meaner  things   .     .  FoJ>e      .     . 

Bannocks  o'  bear  meal Burns  .     . 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field Wordsworth 

Behold  !•  in  various  throngs  the  scribbling  crew     .  Byron  .     . 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind Shakespeare 

Break,  break,  break Tennyson  . 

Clear  placid  Leman  !  thy  contrasted  lake      .     .     .  Byron  . 

Come  away,  come  away,  death Shakespeare 

Come  boat  me  o'er,  come  row  me  o'er      ....  Burns  . 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands Shakespeare 

Creator  spirit,  by  whose  aid Dryden 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a  cloud  .  Miltoti  .     . 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows Tennyson  . 

Descended,  Adam  to  the  bower  where  Eve  .  .  .  Mt/ton  .  . 
Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been  ....  Tennyson  . 
Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair    .     .     .      Wordsworth 

Eternal  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind Byron  .     . 

Father  of  all !  in  every  age Pope     .     . 

503 


304 
370 
181 
187 
484 

483 
81 
427 
468 
188 
27 
228 

305 

423 

378 

86 

495 

383 

80 

305 

83 
212 

173 

455 
144 

465 
417 
396 
239 


504  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Fear  no  more  the  heat  of  the  sun Shakespeare 

Five  years  have  past :  five  summers  with  the  length      Wordsworth 

Fie  fro  the  pres  and  duelle  with  sothfastnesse  .     .  Chancer     . 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Af  ton,  among  thy  green  braes  .  Burns  .     . 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony  ....  Dryden 

From  Stirling  castle  we  had  seen Wordsworth 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies Shakespeare 

Go,  bid  thy  mistress,  when  my  drink  is  ready    .     .  Shakespeare 

Go,  call  the  earls  of  Surrey  and  of  Warwick     .     .  Shakespeare 

Hang  out  our  banners  on  the  outer  walls     .     .     .  Shakespeare 

Hark  !   hark  !  the  lark  at  Heaven's  gate  sings  .     .  Shakespeare 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  him  who  can     .  Goldsmith 

Here  rests  a  woman,  good  without  pretence      .     .  Pope      .     . 

He  said,  and  pass'd  with  sad  presaging  heart    .     .  Pope     .     . 

High  on  a  throne  of  royal  state,  which  far    .     .     .  Miltoji  .     . 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead Tennyso?t  . 

Honour,  riches,  marriage-blessing Shakespeare 

How  should  I  your  true  love  know Shakespeare 

I  envy  not  in  any  moods Tennyson  . 

I  feed  a  flame  within,  which  so  torments  me     .     .  Diyden     . 

If  it  were  done,  when  't  is  done Shakespeare 

If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain Wordsworth 

I  have  of  sorwe  so  grete  wone Chancer     . 

I  held  it  truth  with  him  who  sings Tennyson  . 

I  know  the  thing  that 's  most  uncommon      .     .     .  Pope      .     . 

I  looked  and  saw  within  the  book  of  fate     .     .     .  Dryden 

In  vain,  in  vain,  the  all-composing  hour  ....  Pope      .     . 

Is  not  thilke  same  a  goteheard  prowde    ....  Spenser 

I  sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin Tennyson  . 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty Burns 

I  stood  in  Venice  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs      .     .     .  Byron  .     . 

It  chanced  the  song  that  Enid  sung  was  one     .     .  Tennyson  . 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free  ....  Wordsworth 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king Tennyson  . 

It  was  a  night  of  lovely  June Scott 

It  was  upon  a  holiday Spenser 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud Wordsworth 

Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  way Shakespeare 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  FINES.  505 


John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John Burns  .     . 

Lawn  as  white  as  driven  snow Shakespeare 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds     .     .     .  Shakespeare 

Lie  there,  thou  shadow  of  an  emperor      ....  Dryden 

Lo  !  I,  the  man  whose  Muse  whylome  did  maske  .  Spenser 

Long  have  I  loved  what  I  behold Wordsworth 

Long-while  I  sought  to  what  I  might  compare       .  Spenser 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale      ....  Scott      .     . 

Milton  !  thou  should'st  be  living  at  this  hour    .     .  Wordsworth 

Most  miserable  man  whom  wicked  fate    ....  Spenser 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men    .     .     .  Tennyson  . 

My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here  .  Burns  .     . 

My  loved,  my  honoured,  much  respected  friend    .  Burns  .     . 

Not  with  more  glories,  in  the  ethereal  plain       .     .  Fope      .     . 

Now  is  the  winter  of  our  discontent Shakespeare 

Now  simmer  blinks  on  flow'ry  braes Burns  .     . 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room   .     .  Wordsworth 

O  blithe  New-comer,  I  have  heard Wordsworth 

Of  all  the  causes  which  conspire  to  blind      .     .     .  Fope      .     . 

Of  man's  first  disobedience  and  the  fruit      .     .     .  Milton  .     . 

Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  first     ....  Dryden     . 

Oh,  my  luve  's  like  a  red,  red  rose Burns  .     . 

Oh,  unexpected  stroke,  worse  than  of  death  !    .     .  Milton  .     . 

Oh,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast Burns  .     . 

Old  yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones      ....  Tennyson  . 

Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends,  once  more  Shakespeare 

On  either  side  the  river  lie Tennyson  . 

One,  not  learned  save  in  gracious  household  ways  Tennyson  . 

One  writes  that  other  friends  remain Teitftyson  . 

Orpheus  with  his  lute  made  trees Shakespeare 

O  sorrow,  cruel  fellowship Tennyson  . 

Over  hill,  over  dale Shakespeare 

O  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good Tennyson  . 

Peace  to  all  such  !  but  were  there  one  whose  fires  .  Fope      .     . 

Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow      ....  Goldsmith 

Scorn  not  the  sonnet  ;  critic  you  have  frowned     .  Wordsworth 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled Burns  .     . 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways       ....  Wordsworth 


506  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 


She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight Wordsworth 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot Burns  .     . 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd  ....  Tennyson  . 

So  am  I  as  the  rich,  whose  blessed  key    ....  Shakespeare 

So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive Wordsworth 

So  farewell  to  the  little  good  you  bear  me    .     .     .  Shakespeare 

So  forth  they  rowed;  and  that  ferryman       .     .     .  Spenser 

Soft  you,  a  word  or  two,  before  you  go    ...     .  Shakespeare 
Speak  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  pronounced  it 

to  you Shakespeare 

Stern  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God Wordsworth 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low      ....  .  Tennyson  . 

Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain  Goldsmith 

Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that  liv'st  unseen  Milton  . 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean  .  Tennyson  . 

That  night,  upon  the  rocks  and  bay     ....  Scott      .     . 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold     .     .  Shakespeare 

The  air  bites  shrewdly,  it  is  very  cold Shakespeare 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold  Byron  .     . 

Thee,  Sovereign  God,  our  grateful  accents  praise  .  IJryde?i 

The  gloomy  night  is  gath'ring  fast Burns  .     . 

The  isles  of  Greece  !  the  isles  of  Greece  ....  Byron  .     . 

The  king  comandeth  his  constable  anon  ....  Chaucer     . 

The  Queen  looked  up  and  said Tennyson  . 

There  they  beheld  a  mighty  gyant  stand  ....  Spenser 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream  Wordsworth 

Ther  was  in  Asye,  in  a  greet  citee Chaucer     . 

These  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of  Good  .     .  Milton  . 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls Tennyson  . 

The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops  .     .  Byron  .     . 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ  ....  Tennyson  . 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ  ....  Tennyson  . 

The  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold Scott     .     . 

The  western  waves  of  ebbing  day Scott     .     . 

The  wish  that  of  the  living  whole Tennyson  . 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  :  late  and  soon      .  Words7vorth 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn     .     .  Milton  .     . 

Three  poets  in  three  distant  ages  born     ....  Dryden 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 


507 


Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower  . 
Thus  having  said  brave  Hector  went  to  see 
Thus  year  by  year  they  pass  and  day  by  day 
To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question  .     . 
To  sleep  I  give  my  powers  away      .... 
Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men    . 
To  you,  my  purse,  and  to  noon  other  wight 
Troy  yet  found  grace  before  the  Olympian  sire 
'T  was  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won   . 

Twilight  and  evening  star 

Two  voices  are  there  ;  one  is  of  the  sea  . 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 

Valiant  Othello,  we  must  straight  employ  you 
Wake  now,  my  son,  awake,  for  it  is  time 
Wee,  sleeket,  cow'rin'  tim'rous  beastie     . 
Well,  then,  the  promised  hour  is  come  at  last 
Whan  that  Aprille  with  hise  shoures  soote  . 
What  crowd  is  this  ?  what  have  we  here  . 
When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent    . 
When  I  consider  life,  't  is  all  a  cheat   .     .     . 
When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes 
When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved   .... 
When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

Where  Claribel  low  lieth 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I  .     .     .     . 

Who  ever  saw  a  noble  sight 

Who  is  Silvia.''     What  is  she 

Who  is  the  happy  warrior  ?     Who  is  he  .     . 
Why  doth  the  crown  lie  there  upon  his  pillow 

Will  you  buy  any  tape 

Will  you  go  see  the  order  of  the  course    . 
Ye  banks  and  l^raes  and  streams  around 
Ve  banks  and  braes  of  bonnie  Doon    .     . 
Yet  here,  Laertes  ?     Aboard,  aboard,  for  sham 
Vet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more 
Ye  tradefull  merchants,  that  with  weary  toyle 
You  hear  the  learn'd  Kellario,  what  he  writes 
You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongues 


Wordswortli 

Drydcn 

Dryden 

Shakespeare 

Ten  iiy soil  . 

Wordswor/k 

Chaucer     . 

Pope      .     . 

Dryden 

Tennyson  . 

Wordsworth 

Shakespeare 

Shakespeare 

Spenser 

Burns  . 

Dryden 

Chaucer     . 

JVordsworth 

Milton  .     . 

Dryden 

Shakespeare 

Scott 

Shakespeare 

Tennyson  . 

Shakespeare 

Dryden 

Shakespeare 

Wordsworth 

Shakespeare 

Shakespeare 

Shakespeare 

Burns  . 

Burns  . 

Shakespeare 

All/ton  .     . 

Spenser 

Shakespeare 

Shakespeare 


GLOSSARY. 


chaucp:r. 

Prologue  to  the  Cauterhiiry    Tales. 

swich,  such. 

foweles,  birds. 

hir  corages,  their  minds  or  hearts. 

ferae  halwes,  distant  shrines. 

kowthe,  known. 

esed  atte  beste,  accommodated  in 

the  best  way. 
everychon,  each  one. 
forward,  agreement,  promise, 
ther  as,  where, 
devyse,  relate,  narrate. 
Alisaundre,  Alexandria, 
bord  bigonne,  begun  the  table,  i.e., 

been  placed  at  the  head  of  the 

table. 
Pruce,  Prussia. 
Lettow,  Lithuania. 
Ruce,  Russia. 
Gernade,  Granada. 
Algezir,  Algeciras. 
Belmarye,  Benamarin. 
Lyeys,  Ayas. 
Satalye,  Attalia. 
Tramyssene,  Tremessen. 
Palatye,  I'alathia. 
Turkye,  Turkey. 


prys,  renown,  fame. 

vileynye,  churlish  speech. 

gypoun,  short  cassock. 

bismotered,  marked  with  rust. 

habergeoun,  hawberk. 

viage,  travels. 

lokkes  crulle,  curly  locks. 

evene  lengthe,  average  height. 

natheless,  nevertheless. 

er,  before. 

pace,  proceed. 

ferre,  farther. 

delyvere,  active,  agile. 

chyvachie,  a  military  expedition. 

embrouded,  embroidered. 

floytynge,  playing  on  the  flute. 

nyghtertale,  in  the  night. 

fetisly,  elegantly. 

hir  leste,  her  pleasure. 

ferthyng,  small  bit,  mor.sel. 

raughte,  reached  out. 

sikerly,  surely. 

peyned     hire,    gave     herself     the 

trouble, 
countrefete,  imitate, 
cheere,  Ijehavior,  manners, 
digne,  deserving,  worthy, 
wastel  breed,  cake-bread. 
yerde,  stick.- 


509 


510 


GLOSSARY. 


smerte,  smartly, 
pynched,  finely  pleated, 
tretys,      well-proportioned,     well- 
shaped. 
hardily,  certainly, 
undergrowe,  short, 
fetys,  nice,  fine, 
holwe,  hollow, 
overeste,  uppermost, 
courtepy,  short-coat, 
fithele,  fiddle, 
sautrie,  psaltery, 
hente,  acquire, 
preye,  pray, 
scholeye,  study. 
sentence,  meaning, 
sownynge,  consonant  witli. 
parvys,  church  portico, 
purchasour,  conveyancer. 
hadde,  knew, 
caas,  cases. 
doomes,  opinions, 
pynchen  at,  find  fault  with, 
coude,  knew, 
pleyn,  wholly, 
medlee,  mixed  in  color, 
ceint,  girdle, 
banes,  stripes. 
persoun,  parson, 
snybben,  reprove,  snub. 
spiced,  scrupulous. 

The  Mail  of  Lawe^s  Tale. 
heigh,  severe, 
juyse,  judgment, 
reawme,  realm, 
spille,  jierish. 
sonde,  message, 
seyl,  sail. 


steere,  pilot. 

breyde,  drew. 

thurgh,  through. 

eggement,  instigation. 

refut,  refuge. 

rewe  on,  have  mercy  on. 

routheless,  ruthless,  merciless. 

blissed  hire,  crossed  herself. 

ynogh,  enough. 

heryed,  praised. 

purchace,  provide. 

The  Prioresse^ s  Tale. 

Jewerye,  Jews'  quarter. 

wydwes,  widow's. 

clergeoun,  chorister. 

wone,  custom,  wont. 

sely,  good. 

alday,  always. 

leere,  learn. 

hire,  their. 

anthiphoner,  anthem-book. 

dorste,  dared. 

ner  and  ner,  nearer  and  nearer. 

knowes,  knees. 

shent,  scolded. 

up  swal,  swelled  up. 

aleye,  alley. 

hente,  caught. 

ther,  there  where. 

sowded,  confirmed. 

frayneth,  asketh,  beseecheth. 

parfoumest,  performest. 

ykorven,  cut. 

unnethe,  with  difticulty. 

dooth  to  sterve,  commits  to  die. 

observe,  countenance. 

spreynd,  sprinkled. 


GLOSSARY. 


511 


halse,     clasp    around     the    neck ; 

hence.,  implore,  beseech, 
to  my  semynge,  as  it  seems  tome, 
kynde,  nature. 
forlete,  give  up. 
gruf,  grovelling,  prostrate. 
leve,  grant. 

The  Dcthe  of  Blauuche,  the 
Diicliesse. 

wone,  custom,  wont. 

sadde,  steady. 

mochel,  size. 

overtwert,  across,  askance. 

everydele,  wholly. 

foly,  foolishly. 

sprad,  opened  wide. 

nas  .  .  .  ne,  was  neither  .  .  .  nor. 

The  Legeiide  of  Goode  IVometi. 

witen,  know. 

wenen,  suppose,  think. 

regnes,  kingdoms. 

konne  but  lyte,  know  but  little. 

foules,  birds. 

again,  towards. 

erly  by  the  morwe,   early    in    the 

morning. 
Hike,  alike, 
ylike,  alike,  similar. 

The  Compleynte  of  Chaucer 
to  his  Purse. 

but  yf,  unless. 

voucheth  sauf,  vouchsafe. 

stere,  pilot. 

frere,  friar. 

lygne,  line. 

mowen,  may. 


Fie  fro  the  Pres. 

pres,  crowd. 

sothfastnesse,  truth. 

clymbyng,  climbing,  ambition. 

tikelnesse,  uncertainty. 

wele,  wealth. 

savour,  taste,  wish  for. 

reule,  control. 

rede,  counsel. 

spurn  again  an  nalla,  kick  against 

an    awl,    i.e.,    kick    against    the 

prick, 
croka,  crock,  pot. 
daunta,  conquer,  subdue, 
deda,  act. 

buxumnesse,  submission, 
wrasteling,  wrestling,  struggling, 
wyldymasse,  wilderness, 
of  alia,  for  all  things. 
wayve,  put  aside. 
gosta,  spirit. 

SPENSER.     • 

The  Faerie  Queeiie. 
araads,  prompts,  incites, 
scryna,  case  for  papers, 
mall,  to  meddle. 

a  little  wyde,  at  a  little  distance. 
edifyda,  built. 
file,  polish. 
remorse,  pity. 
fordonna,  undone, 
seaming,  appearing, 
wonne,  habitation. 
recura,  recover, 
surquadria,  pride, 
laasings,  falsehoods. 
pight,  placed. 


512 


GLOSSARY. 


pound,  weight. 
vade,  go. 

T/ie  Shepheardes  Caleftder. 

han,  have. 

yvie  todde,  ivy  bush, 
earnd,  yearned, 
lope,  leaped, 
wimble,  agile, 
wight,  active. 
latched,  caught, 
thilke,  that, 
reede,  saying. 
r3rfe,  ripe. 
tickle,  insecure, 
seely,  simple. 

Mother  Hubberd's  Tale. 

had-y-wist,  had  I  known. 
himselfe  will  a  daw  trie,  will  prove 
himself  a  fool. 


BURNS. 
To  a  Mouse. 

sleeket,  sleek. 

brattle,  race,  hurry. 

pattle,  plough,  staff. 

daimen  icker,  ear  of  corn  now  and 

then, 
thrave,     twenty-four    sheaves    of 

grain, 
big,  build, 
foggage,  aftermath, 
but,  without. 
hald,  home, 
thole,  suffer, 
cranreuch,  hoar-frost. 


The  Coffer's  Saturday  iVight. 
stacher,  stagger. 
flichterin',  fluttering, 
ingle,  fire. 
belyve,  presently, 
tentie,  heedful. 
cannie,  nice,  dexterous, 
bra',  braw,  fine, 
spiers,  asks. 
uncos,  news, 
claes,  clothes, 
eydent,  diligent, 
jauk,  to  dally,  to  trifle. 
hafflins,  half,  partly. 
cracks,  talks, 
kye,  cows,  kine. 
blate,  bashful. 
laithfu',  sheepish. 
hawkie,  white-faced  cow. 
hallan,  partition  wall  between  the 

cottage  and  the  cow  house. 
weel-hain'd,  well-preserved, 
kebbuck,  cheese. 
lint  i'  the  bell,  flax  in  flower. 
lyart,  grey. 
haffets,  temples, 
wales,  chooses. 

For  a'  Thaf,  and  a'  Thaf. 

hodden  grey,  cloth  which  has  the 
natural  color  of  the  wool. 

birkie,  fellow. 

coof,  a  blockhead. 

bear  the  gree,  to  carry  off  tlie  prize, 
be  the  victor. 

Auld  Lang  Syne. 
braes,  the  slopes  of  a  hill, 
gowans,  mountain  daisies. 


GLOSSARY. 


513 


burn,  brook. 

fiere,  brother,  companion, 
guid  Willie,  hearty, 
waught,  cup,  draught. 
stoup,  drinking  cup. 

Bannocks  o'  Barley. 

bannocks,  flat  cakes. 
bear  meal,  barley. 
brulzie,  broil. 

Conic  Iwat  iiic  o'er  to  Charlie. 

(No  wliole  stanza  of  this  song  is  thought 
to  be  original  witli  Burns.  It  is  his  ver- 
sion of  a  Jacobite  song.) 

bawbee,  a  small  coin, 
auld  Nick,  the  devil. 
faes,  foes. 


The  Birks  of  Ahcrfcldy. 

linn,  waterfall. 
bumie,  a  little  stream. 

Highland  Mary. 

drumlie,  muddy. 
birk,  birch. 

John  Anderson. 

brent,  smooth. 

pow,  head. 

canty,  cheerful,  merry. 

Oh,  ivcrt  thou  in  the  Cnuld  Blast. 

airt,  quarter  of  the  heavens, 
bield,  shelter. 


d 


'l£f^         ^IUBRARY(9^^ 


tX3 
33 


^•iv^ 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


5 

V 


£ 

■c 


3 

V 


^\^El]NIVER5'//, 


'Jr 


^ 


^WEUNIVER%       ^101 


i       1)^11(5     3  1158  01217 

r       UC  S0u\hERNJEG10NAL  LIBRARY^FACI^ 


2952 


I    AA 


000  297  526    6 


^  5 


i 


nC, 


SHIBR/ 


^^ 


in 


^OFCA1IFO% 


30 


C_3 


^s-  " 


>- 


^WEUNIVERS'/^ 


I  ^ 


s 

I 


AWEli 


^IH^"^ 


-OtMllL 


<V\t-LlBKAKY«/ 


vlOSAN 


